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TALES  OF  A 
CRUEL  COUNTRY 


TALES  OF  A 
CRUEL  COUNTRY 


BY 

GERALD  CUMBERLAND 

Author  of  "Set  Down  in  Malice" 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
BRENTANO'S 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.   S.   A. 


TO 
FREDERICK  NOEL  BYRON 


2072082 


Then  came  sudden  alarms;  hurrying*  to  and  fro; 
trepidations  of  innumerable  fugitives,  I  knew  not 
•whether  from  the  good  cause  or  the  bad;  dark- 
ness and  lights;  tempest  and  human  faces;  and 
at  last,  with  the  sense  that  all  iiaas  lost,  female 
forms,  and  the  features  that  were  worth  all  the 
world  to  me;  and  but  a  moment  allowed  —  and 
clasped  hands,  with  heart-breaking  partings, 
and  then  —  everlasting  farewells!  and,  with  a 
sigh  such  as  the  caves  of  hell  sighed  when  the 
incestuous  mother  uttered  the  abhorred  name 
of  Death,  the  sound  was  reverberated  —  ever- 
lasting farewells!  and  again,  and  yet  again 
reverberated  —  everlasting  farewells! 

DE  QUINCEY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  Two  LOVERS '   .  i 

KATYA  KONTOROMPA 19 

THE  BATHS  MURDER 33 

THE  DREAMER 47 

WHEN  THE  GREEN  ROSES  CAME 57 

PAUL  OF  TARSUS 73 

THE  MOON  MAN 83 

How  His  FRIENDS  DESTROYED  HIM       ....  97 

THE  VICTIM 117 

TRENCH  MADNESS 133 

LOOT 141 

How  IT  GREW 159 

KATYA'S  WOOING 167 

THE  STORM 183 

THE  MAN  WHO  GAVE  His  SOUL 199 

THE  STRANGER 215 

A  LITTLE  CORRESPONDENCE 235 

THE  DEAF-MUTE  OF  KILINDIR 243 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 259 

INTO  DUST 283 

THE  GRANDCHILD 311 

NERVES ,     ,     .     .  321 


THE   TWO   LOVERS 


To 

Frederick  Noel  Byron 


THE  blossom  of  the  lilac-tree  gave  a  pulp- 
like  sound  as  it  thwacked  against  her 
window,  and  curiously  named  Stephanie 
Miniati  smiled  to  herself  as  she  turned  in  her  bed 
and,  placing  a  hand  on  her  rounded  breast, 
closed  her  eyes  in  order  that  she  might  see  Orosdi. 
For  not  only  did  Orosdi  dwell  in  her  heart,  but  his 
big,  black  eyes  burned  in  her  brain  and  lit  it, 
and  his  sinewy  hands  were  ever  about  her  throat 
in  love-cruelty.  She  closed  her  eyes  and,  in 
imagination,  summoned  him  to  her  chamber. 
He  came :  not  hurriedly,  as  an  anxious  lover 
moves,  but  with  long,  lazy  strides,  his  baby-face 
all  smiles,  his  selfish,  rounded  chin  thrust  a  little 
forward.  He  stood  by  her  side  and  then,  in 
imagination,  she  made  him  bend  down  suddenly 
and  kiss  her  shoulder.  .  .  . 

She  sighed  in  a  luxury  of  love,  and  "  Orosdi  1 
Or-os-di !  "  she  murmured.  And  she  thought  for 
the  thousandth  time:  "I  am  the  most  beautiful 
girl  in  Ajvatli,  and  Orosdi  is  the  most  handsome 
lad  of  all  who  walk  on  the  plain  of  Langaza." 

But  as  yet  she  was  only  half  awake,  and  in 
her  semi-consciousness  had  forgotten  her  other 
lover  who  now  lay  in  the  church  cemetery  on 
the  high  land  above  Ajvatli. 

The  noise  of  the  sheep  and  the  goats  herding 
down  the  uneven  street  brought  her  to  full 
consciousness,  and,  sitting  up  in  bed,  the  smile 
slowly  faded  from  her  face,  a  scowl,  almost  a 
snarl,  taking  its  place.  For  she  had  remembered 
that  to-day  was  the  anniversary  of  the  death  of 

3 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

her  other  lover  and  that,  though  Orosdi  had  made 
the  thought  of  her  dead  sweetheart  sometimes 
hateful,  yet  fear  of  her  neighbours  would,  she 
knew,  compel  her  to  weep  and  pray  at  his  grave 
and  fondle  the  bones  that  had  once  been  covered 
with  stubborn  flesh.  She  sat  and  scowled; 
then,  suddenly,  having  taken  up  a  mirror  that 
lay  on  a  chair  by  her  side,  she  smiled  entrancingly 
at  her  reflection.  She  pulled  back  her  lips  and 
looked  at  her  white  teeth;  she  bared  her  breasts 
and,  holding  the  mirror  below  them,  looked  at 
and  admired  the  twin  curves  reflected  therein; 
then,  making  slits  of  her  eyes,  she  looked  from 
the  corners  of  her  eyelids  —  looked  roguishly, 
invitation  in  her  glance. 

"Oh,  you  dear  creature!"  she  exclaimed; 
"  how  good  of  you  to  be  so  beautiful!  " 

All  morning  she  was  at  work  in  the  fields 
whilst  her  wifeless  father  sat  drinking  cognac  in 
the  village.  She  herself  loved  wine,  but  when 
with  Orosdi  drank  only  mavrodaphne,  the 
"  black  holly "  that  makes  lovers  more  ardent 
and  leaves  no  sting  behind.  The  plain,  covered 
with  vineyards  and  mustard  and  poppies,  blazed 
hotly.  Banked  roadways,  infrequently  used, 
were  covered  with  multitudinous  flowers,  flowers 
that  were  warm  to  the  touch  and  almost  sickly 
with  the  sun's  day-long  kiss.  Stephanie,  stooping 
over  her  work,  wiped  away  with  the  back  of  her 
hand  the  drops  of  perspiration  that  stood 
gleaming  on  her  forehead.  The  heat  did  not 
trouble  her:  she  loved  it,  for  her  strength  was 
that  of  an  animal.  The  sun,  the  flowers,  and 
4 


THE    TWO     LOVERS 

the  call  of  cuckoos  made  Heaven  for  her,  and 
she  praised  her  Heaven  to  the  utmost  height  of 
sublimity  whenever  she  looked  at  Langaza, 
white  among  green  poplars,  where  her  lover 
lived. 

"How  white  it  is!  "  she  said  to  herself;  and 
then  something  in  her  brain  whispered:  "  How 
white  they  will  be.  How  white  they  will  be  to- 
night, in  so  few  hours!'1 

She  caught  her  breath  and  bit  her  underlip. 
Her  cheeks  paled.  "What  do  I  mean?  What 
do  I  mean?"  she  asked  herself,  hurriedly.  But 
only  too  well  did  she  know  what  she  meant. 
Her  brain  was  thinking  of  her  dead  lover's  bones, 
which  to-night  would  lie  in  her  hands  —  bones 
that,  washed  in  wine  a  year  ago,  had  been 
placed  back  in  his  shallow  grave  at  Ajvatli,  and 
which  were  as  white  as  the  cambric  that  comes 
from  England.  Her  religion,  her  loyalty,  her 
dead  love  —  everything  that  demanded  her  ac- 
quiescence in  the  customs  of  her  race  —  meant 
nothing  to  her:  but  the  opinion  of  her  neigh- 
bours meant  everything.  People  in  small  villages 
can  be  very  cruel.  "  Oh,  yes,"  said  Stephanie, 
pitying  herself,  "  they  would  be  cruel.  Father 
most  of  all." 

With  a  resolute  gesture  she  turned  from 
Langaza,  and  bent  over  her  work.  How  wonder- 
fully decisive  and  final  is  the  thrust  with  which 
the  diabolically  selfish  can  rid  themselves  of 
uncomfortable  thoughts!  With  an:  "Oh!  I'll 
go  through  with  it !  "  she  put  the  little  grave 
aside,  forgetting  the  dead  youth's  dear  kisses 

5 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

that,  how  brief  a  time  ago,  used  to  run  from  her 
brow  to  her  eyes,  from  her  eyes  to  her  mouth,  and 
from  her  mouth  to  her  breasts  where  they  used  to 
cling  and  turn  her  girlhood  to  maidenhood. 

At  midday  she  stopped  her  work  and,  seated 
on  a  high  bank,  ate  bread  and  olives  and  drank 
a  little  of  the  wine  of  Samos.  I  think  I  can 
show  her  to  you.  The  bank  is  covered  with 
high  grass  and  tall  flowers  —  such  flowers  as  you 
will  see  in  England  any  real  June:  So,  of  course, 
she  is  half  hidden  in  a  little  swimming  mist  of 
colour  of  blue  and  yellow  and  green.  Her  skirt 
is  pulled  above  her  knees  and  you  can  see  the 
thick  woollen  stockings  that  do  not  mar  the 
beauty  of  her  long  ankles.  Her  dark  face  is 
sallow  and  red,  her  hair  black;  her  bosom  — 
you  can  see  it,  for  her  blouse  is  opened  two 
buttons  at  the  neck  —  whiter  than  the  paper  on 
which  this  little  history  is  printed.  She  wears 
no  hat,  and  her  blouse  is  a  dusky  red,  the  colour 
of  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes  are  pits  of  darkness  in 
each  of  which  a  flame  burns  brightly,  almost 
fervently.  An  animal,  of  course.  But  a  beauti- 
ful animal,  with  a  beauty  that  not  one  woman 
in  a  thousand  Greek  women  possesses.  But  is 
she  Greek?  She  says  so.  But  is  she?  Some 
lusty  Bulgar,  perchance,  raped  her  grandmother, 
or  a  Turk,  insinuating  and  cruel,  crept  to  the 
bed  of  some  maternal  ancestor.  These  things 
happen  there  in  Macedonia,  as  elsewhere. 

You  will  not  like  the  way  she  eats,  for  her  lips 
are  not  closed  and  her  right  cheek  bulges.  And 
her  hands,  face,  neck,  and  breasts  are  wet  with 
6 


THE    TWO     LOVERS 

perspiration.  A  woman  to  be  loved  and  feared, 
I  think:  more  feared  than  loved.  .  .  . 

But  she  has  finished  her  little  meal.  .  .  . 

She  lay  on  her  back,  the  sun 'smiting  her,  the 
sun  of  Greece  that  two  thousand  years  ago 
smote  men  to  greatness,  that  burned  men  and 
melted  them  and  recast  them  as  poets,  orators, 
sculptors,  writers  of  dramas.  She  turned  over 
on  her  side  and  murmured  something,  pressing 

her  lips  to  the  ground,  and  smiling.   .  .  . 
*  *  * 

Orosdi  was  drinking  at  Langaza.  He  was 
sleek  and  lazy,  but  his  brain  was  bright,  and  he 
was  now  busy  purchasing  two  mules  from  his 
father.  For  Orosdi  had  a  farm  of  his  own,  and 
prospered  as  all  physically  lazy  men  may  prosper 
if  their  brains  are  deep  and  cunning  and  if  they 
retain  the  accumulated  traditions  of  their  an- 
cestors. 

"  Ninety-five  drachmae,"  said  Orosdi,  placing 
his  plump  hand  on  the  thin,  vein-corded  hand  of 
his  father. 

The  older  man  smiled. 

"  You  are  the  son  of  my  father,"  he  said, 
enigmatically.  Then  he  added,  reminiscently: 
"  He  always  began  with  half  the  price  he  was 
willing  to  pay.  We  will  talk  of  this  to-morrow." 

"  No,  no.  It  is  pleasant  here.  Let  us  finish 
the  business  now." 

He  turned  aside  and  called  to  the  keeper  of 
the  inn  outside  which  they  were  sitting.  A 
dirty  creature  limped  from  the  dark  interior  to 
the  doorway. 

7 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  You  have  my  bottle  of  whisky  there,  is  it 
not  so?  Well,  open  it.  And  bring  two  clean 
glasses." 

His  father  started  a  little. 

"'Tis  an  old  trick,"  observed  he.  "You 
would  make  me  drunk  and  then  buy  from  me? 
I  would  rather  give  you  the  mules  than  that  you 
should  do  that." 

"  Father,  I  brought  the  whisky  for  you 
because  .  .  .  because,  well,  you  know  why." 
He  looked  affectionately  at  his  parent. 

The  old  man,  gazing  at  his  handsome  son,  felt 
his  eyes  becoming  moist.  An  impulse  overswept 
him. 

'  You  were  always  a  good  son  to  me,"  he  said. 
"  Let  me  give  you  the  mules." 

"Father!" 

;<  Well,  after  all,  I'm  at  the  end  of  my  life,  and 
you.  .  .  .  You  know,  Orosdi  .  .  .  but  do  you 
know?" 

"Father,  father!" 

But  the  dirty  innkeeper  interrupted  the  con- 
versation by  putting  the  whisky  bottle  and  two 
glasses  on  the  table. 

"  Come,  let  us  drink,"  said  Orosdi,  feeling  a 
little  uncomfortable  and  pouring  out  the  liquor. 

They  drank  the  spirit  neat,  and  almost  imme- 
diately the  old  man's  worn  face  became  flushed 
and  active. 

"Well,  they  are  yours,"  he  said;  "I  will 
bring  them  to  you  to-morrow." 

His  son  rose  and  kissed  him  on  the  cheek. 

''What  can  I  give  you  in  return?"  he  asked. 


THE    TWO     LOVERS 

His  father  sat  silent  for  a  minute,  twisting  his 
fingers  under  the  edge  of  the  table  and  looking 
on  the  ground.  He  darted  a  shy  glance  at  the 
young  man. 

"  I  would  like  only  one  thing,"  said  he. 

"  It  is  yours." 

"  I  would  like  you  to  come.  .  .  .  But  perhaps 
you  have  already  arranged.  ...  If  you  were  to 
come  and  sit  with  me  to-night,  I  should  be  very 
happy." 

Orosdi's  jaw  sank  and  his  face  clouded. 
1  To-morrow,  father,"  said  he,  "  of  course  I 
will  come.     But  to-night  I  go  to  Ajvatli." 

The  old  man  poured  out  more  whisky  and 
drank  it  greedily.  He  sighed,  and  began  again 
to  twist  his  fingers  under  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"  Not  to-night,  then,"  he  murmured,  with 
resignation. 

"  But  why  especially  to-night?  "  urged  Orosdi. 

"Have  you  forgotten?     It  is  my  birthday." 

"  Blast !  .  .  .  Yes,  father,  of  course  I  will 
come.  I  will  come  three  hours  —  two  hours  — 
after  sunset.  I  thought  of  your  birthday  yester- 
day: you  were  a  good  deal  in  my  thoughts.  .  .  . 
But  to-day!  But  you  know  me,  father.  I  am 
like  that.  I  have  always  been  so.  But  you  do 
know,  father,  don't  you,  that  no  one  comes 
before  you  in  my  love?  " 

'  You  see,  my  son,  I  am  old.  To-day  I  am 
seventy-three.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
nearer  I  get  to  the  grave  the  more  lonely  I 
become.  Sometimes  I  wish  that  we  lived  to- 
gether .  .  .  that  if  we  lived  together  .  .  ." 

9 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Oh,  but,  father  —  it  was  you  who  urged  me 
to  strike  out  for  myself  ...  to  do  what  I  could 
without  hindrance  —  that  is  how  you  put  it, 
father:  you  called  yourself  a  hindrance." 

"  Did  I?  "  questioned  the  old  man,  dully.  "  I 
forget.  You  may  be  right." 

"  Come  and  live  with  me,  father,"  said 
Orosdi,  impulsively.  "  You  can  sell  your  bit  of 
land.  .  .  ." 

"  No,"  interrupted  the  old  man,  proudly,  "  no, 
Orosdi.  This  is  just  a  minute's  weakness: 
every  one  has  these  moments.  You  must  go 
your  way;  I,  mine." 

He  poured  out  more  whisky  and  drank  it. 

"  And  now,  Orosdi,"  said  he,  looking  at  the 
half-empty  bottle,  "  I  think  I  will  go  home." 

"  Arrd  I  will  accompany  you  to  your  door. 
You  must  take  the  whisky  with  you." 

Orosdi  recorked  the  bottle  and  put  it  in  his 
father's  hands. 

They  rose  and  walked  together  through  the 
village  until  they  reached  its  outskirts,  where, 
coming  upon  a  detached,  terraced  house  where 
the  old  man  lived,  they  parted.  The  old  man 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  The  room  into 
which  he  stepped  straight  from  the  street  was 
large,  but  badly  lit;  it  smelt  stuffily  of  leeks. 
Lurching  across  the  tiled  floor,  he  reached  a  little 
stool  on  which  he  sat,  his  hands  clasped  in  front 
of  him,  his  head  bent  low.  His  lips  moved,  and 
he  trembled  with  the  ague  of  age. 

Presently,  feeling  intolerably  tired,  he  rose 
and  shambled  to  a  rug  lying  in  a  corner.  Casting 
10 


THE    TWO     LOVERS 

himself  upon  this,  he  was  soon  asleep;  dreams 
came  trooping  to  him,  dreams  of  hatred  of 
Stephanie  Miniati  who  was  taking  his  dear  son 
from  him.  How  he  loved  Orosdi  of  the  lazy 
smile,  Orosdi  whose  shoulders  were  so  strong, 
Orosdi  who  could  be  as  tender  as  a  woman,  and 
as  faithless. 


The  sun  had  already  set  when  Orosdi  went 
forth  from  Langaza  to  see  his  love  at  Ajvatli, 
and  he  pulled  his  body  together  sensually  as  he 
trod  the  long,  white  road.  Frogs  splashed  and 
croaked  in  the  ditches,  nightingales  sang,  a  big 
moon  stared.  But  he  cared  for  none  of  these 
things.  The  world  to  him  was  one  woman:  a 
woman  whose  kisses  were  fierce,  and  whose  clasp 
would  not  let  him  go. 

His  mood  was  a  little  bitter  and  cruel. 
Stephanie  had  played  with  him  too  long.  She 
would  not  marry  him  and  she  would  not  let 
him.  .  .  .  What  was  the  use  of  a  love  like  that? 
It  was  not  that  she  was  virtuous:  she  was 
simply  afraid?  After  all,  why  shouldn't  she 
marry  him?  Her  old  lover  had  been  dead 
these  years,  and  there  was  no  reason  for  her 
ridiculous  clinging  to  his  memory.  It  was  true, 
she  had  been  the  cause  of  his  death,  for  he  had 
given  his  life  to  Langaza  Lake  in  attempting  to 
save  her  from  drowning.  But  that  was  an 
accident:  a  happy  accident.  .  .  .  He  smiled 
grimly. 

But  to-night  he  would  bring  the  business  of 

ii 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

his  passionate  courting  to  a  head.  The  thing 
was  wearing  him  out.  His  robust  body  was 
failing  him.  To  clasp  and  kiss  ...  to  clasp 
and  kiss  and  never  really  love!  That  was  play 
for  children. 

He  quickened  his  pace  and  passed  through  the 
outskirts  of  Ajvatli.  The  crooked  village  was 
full  of  black  shadows,  and  even  to  him  who  was 
familiar  with  them,  the  twisting,  inconsequent 
streets  were  like  a  maze;  nevertheless,  Orosdi 
could  without  difficulty  have  found  his  way 
blindfolded  to  Stephanie's  house.  His  nearest 
way  there  lay  past  the  central  inn,  outside  which 
many  men  were  sitting,  drinking.  For  a  moment 
the  young  farmer  hesitated;  then,  calling  for  a 
bottle  of  mavrodaphne,  he  flung  himself  down  in 
a  chair  and  peered  around  him  to  see  if  he  could 
discern  the  face  of  Stephanie's  father  by  the 
light  of  the  one  lamp  that  hung  outside  the  inn. 
Several  acquaintances  greeted  him:  he  replied 
to  them  curtly,  almost  insolently.  Miniati  was 
away,  they  told  him.  He  had  set  out  for  Seres 
in  the  afternoon,  and  would  not  return  for  nearly 
a  week. 

He  grunted  his  satisfaction,  uncorked  his 
bottle,  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  and  slowly 
drank  the  sweet  intoxicant.  Almost  at  once  he 
felt  its  stimulating  effect;  it  fired  him  and  his 
passion,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  he 
rose  and  made  his  way  to  Stephanie's  house. 
Having  arrived  there,  he  knocked,  but  there  was 
no  reply.  He  tapped  with  a  stick  on  the  high 
window,  but  no  one  came. 
12 


THE    TWO    LOVERS 

"  Blast !  "  he  whispered  between  his  teeth. 

"  And  don't  you  know  where  she  is?  "  asked  a 
voice  behind  him. 

He  turned  to  see  a  wrinkled  old  woman  who 
was  bent  almost  at  right  angles  over  a  stick  that 
supported  her. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  impatiently,  "  where  is 
she?" 

'  Where  should  she  be  to-night  if  not  with  my 
grandson?  " 

He  remembered.  The  old  woman  was  the 
grandmother  of  Stephanie's  dead  Mercury,  and 
the  girl  herself  would  be  in  the  cemetery  with 
the  boy's  bones.  He  kicked  at  a  stone  angrily, 
and,  turning  on  his  heel,  walked  past  the  church 
to  the  graveyard  above.  At  the  open  iron  gate 
he  paused  and  looked  about  him.  Not  a  soul 
was  to  be  seen.  Going  down  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  he  crept  behind  the  diminutive  grave- 
stones until  he  came  to  within  a  few  yards  of 
the  grave  he  sought,  where  he  lay  prone,  scarcely 
breathing,  his  eyes  hard  and  glittering,  his  upper 
jaw  closed  anxiously  over  his  lower  lip.  He 
could  see  his  girl.  She  knelt  at  a  very  shallow 
open  grave;  touching  her  knees  was  a  heap  of 
disordered  bones;  a  white  skull,  small  and 
boyish,  reflected  the  moonlight. 

But  Stephanie  was  not  looking  at  what  re- 
mained of  her  Mercury;  she  was  gazing  into 
space  with  unseeing  eyes,  her  arms  by  her  side, 
her  body  held  loosely,  dejection  in  every  line  of 
her  figure.  Once  or  twice  she  stirred  uneasily  as 
though  half  aware  of  Orosdi's  presence. 

13 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

He,  cunning  and  alert,  watched  for  his  oppor- 
tunity. A  mood  of  disgust  might  presently  come 
to  her.  Or  she  might  melt  in  tenderness  at 
thought  of  him.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  wind  in  the  trees,  and  in  the  air 
the  scent  of  lilac.  Orosdi  heard  the  wind  and 
smelt  the  lilac.  The  earth  gave  forth  the 
warmth  of  the  day's  sun;  it  excited  him,  and 
his  teeth  bit  more  deeply  into  his  lower  lip.  His 
Stephanie  looked  cool  and  apart  in  her  white 
robe. 


Less  than  a  dozen  yards  away,  peering  over 
the  wall  was  an  old  man  whose  lips  moved 
angrily.  But  he  was  patient  in  his  anger,  for  he 
was  afraid  of  his  son.  He  felt  himself  to  be 
futile,  and  it  was  deep  misery  to  stand  here  and 
watch  Orosdi  worshipping  that  handsome  and 
destructive  Greek  girl:  still,  he  must  remain. 
He  had  a  morbid  craving  for  self-inflicted  pain, 
and  the  whisky  he  had  drunk  earlier  in  the  day 
twisted  things  out  of  focus.  He  would  do 
nothing;  he  would  only  watch.  He  would  learn 
the  worst. 

After  a  very  long  time,  he  saw  Orosdi  crouch 
like  a  cat  and  glide  like  a  snake.  He  saw  him 
glide  behind  Stephanie,  rise  to  his  feet  and 
approach  her  till  he  stood  above  her,  holding  out 
his  arms. 

And  then  a  violent  thing  happened.  Orosdi, 
having  stood  irresolute  a  moment,  suddenly 


THE    TWO     LOVERS 

stepped  to  his  lover's  side,  kicked  away  the 
bones  that  lay  at  her  knees,  threw  his  arms 
around  the  girl's  body,  lifted  her  from  the 
ground,  and  carried  her  away  to  the  shadow  of 
the  little  stone  building  in  which,  hidden  in  rows 
of  sacks,  lie  the  bones  of  Ajvatli's  dead.  There 
was  no  sound  save  a  small  hysterical  laugh  of  joy 
from  the  girl.  The  old  man  heard  them  sighing 
in  the  shadow,  and,  like  a  knife,  the  thought  of 
his  own  honeymoon  stabbed  his  soul.  He  mut- 
tered rapidly  to  himself,  and  frowned.  Then, 
pulling  himself  laboriously  over  the  wall,  he 
walked  rapidly  to  the  graveside,  gathered  the 
scattered  bones  together,  and  replaced  them  in 
the  shallow  grave.  He  did  this  quickly  but 
tidily,  feeling  his  decency  shocked,  and  feeling, 
as  he  had  never  felt  before,  that  his  son  was  a 
stranger  to  him.  He  filled  up  the  grave  with 
earth,  and  smoothed  the  surface  with  the  palms 
of  his  hands.  And  then,  with  a  frightened 
prayer,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  made  his  way  to  the 
wall  and  clambered  over.  On  the  far  side  he 
stopped  to  listen  a  moment.  But  no  sound 
reached  him;  the  lovers  were  quiet  in  their  bliss. 


It  was  nearly  midnight  when  they  rose,  and 
all  the  guardian  semi-wild  dogs  of  Ajvatli  seemed 
to  be  barking  together.  Orosdi  was  full  of  quiet 
happiness:  Stephanie  had  given  herself  to  him 
and  had  promised  herself  in  marriage.  He 
placed  his  arm  around  her  and  began  to  lead  her 

15 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

towards   the   iron  gate   of   the   cemetery.     But, 
very  gently,  she  put  him  away,  saying: 

"  Leave  me  alone.     I  will  see  you  to-morrow." 

"  No !  "  he  insisted.  "  You  are  mine  now. 
What  does  it  matter  who  sees  us?" 

"  But  you  forget,"  she  protested.  And  as  he 
did  not  appear  to  know  what  he  had  forgotten, 
she  added :  "  You  forget  what  we  are  leaving 
behind.  I  must  put  him  away  again." 

She  walked  towards  the  grave,  he  by  her  side. 
Simultaneously,  on  emerging  from  behind  a  tree, 
they  discovered  that  the  bones  had  disappeared, 
that  the  grave  had  been  refilled,  and  that  the 
earth  above  it  was  smooth  and  tidy.  They 
stopped,  and  her  hand  sought  his.  He  put  his 
arms  about  her  protectingly,  though  his  fear 
equalled  her  own. 

"He  has  gone  back!"  she  muttered,  awe- 
struck. And  she  stood  gazing  on  the  grave  as 
though  hypnotized. 

"Come  away,"  he  said,  trembling;  "your 
Mercury  may  return." 

Without  another  word  they  turned  and,  panic- 
stricken,  rushed  from  the  cemetery.  At  her 
house-door  they  stopped. 

"  What  does  it  mean?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  means  he  no  longer  loves  me.  You  kicked 
him.  You  kicked  my  Mercury  who  was  always 
so  good  to  me." 

She  looked  at  him  wild-eyed,  accusingly. 

Without  a  farewell  embrace  she  opened  the 
door  and  entered  the  house,  leaving  him  alone. 

*  *  * 

16 


THE    TWO     LOVERS 

The  old  man  was  lying  on  his  rug  when  his  son 
entered.  He  had  finished  the  bottle  of  whisky 
and  he  knew  not  what  his  mood  was. 

'  Two  hours  ago  it  was  my  birthday,"  he  said, 
aggressively,  "  my  birthday,  and  you  did  not 
come,  though  you  promised." 

He  protruded  his  under-lip  and,  seizing  an 
empty  glass  that  stood  near  him  where  he  lay 
on  the  floor,  he  cast  it  on  the  tiles  where  it  was 
smashed  to  fragments. 

Orosdi,  weary  and  a  little  afraid  of  what  the 
night  had  brought  him,  sat  down  and  sighed. 

"  Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  father,"  he  said, 
gravely. 

'  You  have  done  three  evil  things  this  night," 
said  the  old  man. 

"  One  is  not  always  virtuous.  .  .  .  But  I  will 
see  you  in  the  morning.  I  must  sleep.  You 
also,  father.  You  are  overwrought." 

"  No.  I'm  drunk.  Men  see  truth  when  they 
are  drunk.  They  see  things  they  dare  not  look 
at  in  their  sober  times.  Your  mother,  who  was 
a  scholar,  used  to  say  there  is  truth  in  wine. 
Damnable  truth.  Never  mind,  Orosdi,  my  son. 
We  cannot  help  ourselves." 

But  Orosdi  had  slipped  from  the  house,  and 
the  old  man  was  talking  to  an  empty  room.  He 
continued  maundering  for  a  long  time  until, 
overcome  by  sleep,  he  fell  heavily  on  the  floor 
and  closed  his  eyes. 


KATYA    KONTOROMPA 


To 

Jack  Kahane 


MRS.  KONTOROMPA  waddled  into 
her  large  drawing-room  at  Hortiach 
one  May  morning  calling  "  Katya  1 
Katya !  "  in  a  voice  more  shrill  than  a  parrot's. 
She  progressed  rather  magnificently  in  spite  of  her 
waddle,  for  she  had  both  weight  and  solidity, 
and  it  was  not  without  dignity  that,  having 
reached  the  window,  she  leaned  out  and  surveyed 
her  hot  garden  blazing  with  colour.  "  Katya ! 
Katya  !  "  she  shrilled. 

11  What  is  it,  mamma?  "  asked  a  languid  voice 
from  the  depths  of  a  luxurious  chair  near  the 
piano  a  yard  or  two  away. 

Mrs.  Kontorompa's  irritation  vanished  in- 
stantly. 

"  Oh,  Katya,  dear,  I  have  just  been  speaking 
to  your  father  on  the  telephone.  He  said  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  what  he  said,"  interrupted  her 
daughter.  "  He  said  no.  He  always  does  say 
no.  But  I  warn  you,  mamma,  I'm  just  about 
at  the  end  of  my  patience,  and  either  to-day  or 
to-morrow  I  shall  .  .  .  well,  I  shall  do  some- 
thing desperate." 

Mrs.  Kontorompa's  most  benevolent  face 
assumed  a  look  of  anxiety. 

"But  what  can  /  do?"  she  asked,  despair- 
ingly. 

"  Nothing,  dear  mamma.  We  have  always 
known  —  you  and  I  —  that  you  could  do  nothing. 
It's  not  your  fault.  But  papa  is  so  stupid,  is  it 
not  so?  Why,  in  the  name  of  God,  he  sent 
me  .  .  ." 

21 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Katya,  you  must  not  swear.  Besides,  you 
have  promised  me  not  to." 

"  Very  well,  mamma,  I  won't.  Why,  in  the 
name  of  respectability  then,  he  sent  me  to 
Brussels  —  Brussels,  of  all  places  —  I  can't  un- 
derstand." 

Her  luminous  blue  eyes,  deep  and  tender, 
formed  large  patches  of  colour  above  her  very 
pale  cheeks,  and  her  pouting  red  lips,  half 
smiling,  concealed  her  regularly  irregular  white 
teeth. 

"Your  father,  Katya,  dear  —  well,  you  know 
what  your  father  is.  He  blunders,  but  he  means 
well.  He  thought  Brussels  would  be  good  for 
you." 

"  Oh,  it  was,  it  was :  most  awfully  good.  The 
Avenue  Louise,  mamma,  on  a  May  morning  with 
Captain  Pierre  Lacroix  by  my  side  —  oh,  that 
was  heaven!  Yes,  Brussels  was  heaven,  and  I 
lived  there  among  the  male  angels  —  I  mean 
the  deliciously  wicked  men  —  for  one  very  short 
year.  But  if  Brussels  was  heaven,  Hortiach  is 
hell,  and  I  really  do  believe  father  is  the  devil 
himself." 

Her  mother  smiled  reluctantly. 

"  Katya,  dear,  you  musn't  talk  like  that.  At 
all  events,  only  when  we're  alone." 

It  was  Katya's  turn  to  smile,  and  in  the  middle 
of  her  sweet  smile  she  broke  out,  impulsively: 

"Father  is  a  dear,  really,  you  know;  but  he 
is  so  awfully  blind  and  dull  and  stupid.     Fancy 
thinking  Salonika  is  too  wicked  for  me  to  live  in ! 
Why,  if  he  only  knew  the  things  I  did.  .  .  ." 
22 


KATYA     KONTOROMPA 

She  paused  and  her  eyes  grew  naughty  with 
reminiscences. 

'Yes,  Katya?"  her  mother  whispered,  in- 
vitingly. 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  say  '  nothing,'  but  I  mean 
everything." 

"  Everything?  " 

'  Well,  not  quite  everything.  Yet  I  some- 
times wish  I  had  gone  what  my  English  friends 
used  to  call  *  the  whole  hog.'  All  the  way,  you 
know." 

"  Oh,  do,  do  be  careful,  Katya.  You  will  be 
married  some  day,  you  know." 

'  That's  just  the  point  —  shall  I  ?  Whom  can 
I  marry  in  Hortiach?  Is  there  a  single  soul 
good  enough?  You  know  there  isn't.  Yet  in 
Salonika,  only  fifteen  miles  away,  there  must  be 
scores  of  the  most  delightful  creatures.  Oh, 
mamma,  I  do  love  men,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  used  to,  dear.  But  now  I  love  only  your 
father." 

"  Poor  mamma !  But  how  awfully  sweet  for 
father !  " 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes  whilst  the 
still  garden  hummed  with  insects;  the  sun 
smote  the  flowers,  and  a  trickle  of  water  made 
a  tepid  sound  in  the  well  close  by. 

Then,  suddenly,  Mrs.  Kontorompa,  having 
brushed  away  a  fly  that  had  settled  on  her  nose, 
turned  to  her  daughter. 

"  I  will  persuade  your  father  to  let  us  join  him 
in  Salonika  for  a  fortnight.  I  will  really,  Katya. 
I  know  how  to  do  it.  We  will  go  next  month." 

23 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Oh,  you  are  sweet,  mamma  dear,  aren't 
you?  I  do  think  you're  sweet." 

And  Katya,  rising  from  her  deep  chair  and 
gliding  to  the  pianoforte,  began  to  play  Chopin's 
Polonaise  in  C-sharp  minor,  crashing  out  the 
fat  discords  with  all  the  exuberance  of  youth. 
With  her  hands  folded  on  that  part  of  her  body 
lying  below  her  waist,  Mrs.  Kontorompa  sat 
admiring  her  daughter:  admiring  this  daring 
and  bewildering  creature  who,  only  a  month 
ago,  had  come  from  a  Belgian  school  whither  she 
had  gone  to  add  smartness  to  her  education: 
admiring  and  loving  her,  and  feeling  that  she 
would  sell  her  soul  to  be  like  Katya  —  eighteen, 
beautiful,  devil-may-care,  clever,  wilful,  and  so 
terribly  worshipful.  Then,  Katya  having  begun 
the  great  Nocturne  in  C  minor,  with  its  quivering 
and  mounting  octaves,  Mrs.  Kontorompa  rose 
and  left  the  room  to  supervise  the  mysterious 
workings  of  her  Grecian  household. 


It  was  quite  early  the  same  morning  that 
Katya,  white  and  wonderful,  left  her  father's 
house  and  walked  higher  up  the  mountain  to  the 
side  of  which  Hortiach  clings.  She  was  in  a 
mood  of  half-angry  revolt,  and  as  she  walked 
along  a  sheep-track  winding  among  the  rocks, 
she  told  herself  that  if  only  Elise  Deschamps 
were  with  her,  they  would  surely  find  something 
amusing  to  do.  Elise  respected  the  opinions  of 
no  one.  And  as  Katya  Kontorompa's  mind  was 
busy  thinking  of  her  friend,  suddenly,  from 

24 


KATYA     KONTOROMPA 

behind  a  rock  stepped  a  tall,  slim  youth,  hatless, 
bare-chested,  carrying  a  flute  in  his  hand,  his 
black  curly  hair  surmounting  a  face  that  was  at 
once  grave  and  beseeching. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Katya,  half-aloud,  as  she  caught 
her  breath  and  passed  him. 

He,  giving  her  a  rapid,  shy  glance,  walked 
across  her  path  and  made  his  way  to  a  shaded 
pool  that  even  at  midday  is  always  cool  and 
fresh. 

She  watched  him  as  he,  far  off,  sat  down  in  the 
sunlight  that,  dripping  from  the  fig-tree  above 
him,  flecked  him  with  patches  of  green  and 
white.  She  could  just  hear  the  low,  watery 
tones  of  his  flute  as  he  improvised  with  the 
careless  ease  of  an  artist.  She  had  seen  him 
thus  on  several  occasions,  and,  seeing  him,  had 
always  felt  a  little  thrill  of  desire.  She  wished 
to  love  him  just  for  an  hour,  to  have  those  slender 
arms  about  her  body,  to  feel  his  curved, 
inexperienced  lips  against  her  own.  But  he  was 
shy  and  a  little  afraid.  Yes:  she  was  sure  he 
was  afraid,  for  every  time  she  had  crossed  his 
path  he  had  hastened  his  pace  to  almost  a  run, 
and  had  never  once  looked  back  to  meet  her 
inquiring  and  inviting  gaze.  His  fear  of  her 
spurred  her  on  to  an  adventure  with  him,  for  she 
could  not  understand  his  sexless  eyes,  and  to  her 
it  was  ridiculous  that  a  handsome  youth  should 
run  away  from  a  beautiful  and  willing  girl. 

Sitting  down  in  the  shade  of  a  rock,  she  half 
closed  her  eyes  and  looked  lazily  at  him  as  he 
sat  by  his  deep  pool  of  coolest  water.  His  flute 

25 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

still  gave  its  music,  music  that  was  as  free  from 
care  and  all  self-consciousness  as  the  song  of  a 
bird.  What  a  dear,  foolish  and  charming  boy 
he  was!  He  could  be  no  more  than  a  year 
younger  than  herself,  and  yet  she  could  swear  he 
had  never  loved  a  woman.  Loved?  —  why,  not 
even  kissed. 

Though  she  felt  angry  with  him  because  of  his 
passionless  eyes,  she  could  not  help  experiencing 
a  certain  yearning  for  him,  a  tenderness  that  was 
half  laughter,  half  tears.  When,  at  length,  he 
wandered  away,  she  sighed. 

"  Oh,  damn !  "  she  whispered.  "  The  little 
fool  is  an  abject  idiot!  Do  I  really  love  him?  I 
wonder.  ...  In  any  case,  I  will  have  some  fun 
with  him.  If  he  will  not  love  me,  he  shall  at 
least  hate  me." 

Happy  with  her  new  interest  in  life,  she 
planned  her  mischievous  and  immodest  scheme. 
Like  all  Greek  women,  she  was  discretion  itself, 
and  the  first  question  she  put  to  herself  was: 
"  If  I  do  it,  will  he  tell?  "  But  this  so  necessary 
question  required  only  a  moment's  consideration. 
Of  course  he  wouldn't  tell,  for,  in  any  event, 
whatever  the  outcome  of  her  escapade  might  be, 
the  story  of  it  would  be  against  himself.  More- 
over, she  would  so  cleverly  contrive  matters  that 
it  would  appear  that  the  entire  occurrence  was 
one  of  the  many  affairs  of  chance. 

And,  musing  over  her  plan,  she  walked  rather 
rapidly  down  to  her  garden-home. 


26 


KATYA     KONTOROMPA 

Mrs.  Kontorompa  never  dressed  for  breakfast. 
In  the  warm  days  she  always  breakfasted  in  a 
flimsy  dressing-gown  on  the  little  veranda  outside 
her  bedroom,  and  it  was  here  early  one  morning 
that  Katya,  looking  very  demure,  joined  her. 
She  carried  a  French  translation  of  one  of 
Joseph  Conrad's  books. 

"  Good  morning,  mamma,"  she  said,  "  how 
perfectly  sweet  you  look  in  that  pink  thing!  " 

Mrs.  Kontorompa,  who  knew  very  well  that 
she  did  not  look  sweet  in  anything  in  the  world, 
smiled. 

'  You  do  say  such  nice  things,  Katya  dear." 

"  Oh,  the  coffee's  here  already.  Do  pour  me 
out  a  glass,  mamma.  I'm  terribly  thirsty  —  and 
hungry,  too." 

She  ate  bread,  butter  and  honey,  and  smiled 
at  two  kissing  butterflies. 

"How  nice  to  be  a  butterfly!"  she  said, 
munching. 

"Yes,  but  why?" 

"  Well,  a  butterfly  does  just  what  it  wants.  It 
does  not  wait  to  be  introduced.  It  is  so  wonder- 
fully unmoral." 

Her  mother  surveyed  her  for  a  moment. 

u  Do  you  know,  Katya,  you  sometimes  talk 
just  like  some  of  the  women  in  those  French 
novels  you  brought  home  with  you  from 
Brussels." 

"  Do  I  ?  Well,  I  feel  like  them.  I'm  going 
for  a  bathe  this  morning,  mamma." 

"A  bathe!     Where?     Why?" 

27 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  In  the  little  pool  by  the  fig-tree.  Because  I 
want  to." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  come  with  you." 

"  That  would  be  lovely,"  said  Katya,  "  if  I 
were  selfish  enough  to  allow  you.  But  you'd 
make  yourself  ill,  climbing  up  there  in  the 


sun." 


"  But,  Katya  .  .  ." 

"  You  know  you  would,  mamma.  No,  I'm 
going  alone.  No  one  ever  goes  near  the  place : 
I  shall  be  quite  all  right." 

And  when  she  had  finished  her  breakfast,  she 
went  to  her  room,  put  on  a  big  sun-hat,  took  a 
towel  from  her  bedroom  cupboard,  and  stepped 
very  silently  downstairs.  But  her  mother  issued 
from  the  drawing-room  just  as  her  daughter 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

"  But  you  have  nothing  to  cover  yourself  with 
—  no  bathing  costume ! "  Mrs.  Kontorompa 
objected. 

"Ah,  that's  just  it!"  said  Katya  mischiev- 
ously. 

"What  is?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  mamma,  my  precious.  Good- 
bye." 

And  she  ran  into  the  garden,  swinging  the 
towel  over  her  head. 

There  was  still  a  little  coolness  of  dawn  in  the 
air,  especially  under  the  trees,  and  the  freshness 
of  the  air  and  the  hard  exercise  of  climbing  up 
the  mountain-side  brought  an  unaccustomed 
tinge  of  rose  'to  Katya's  cheeks.  The  clear  pool 
28 


KATYA     KONTOROMPA 

was  waiting  for  her,  and,  stepping  to  its  rocky 
edge,  she  bent  over  a  little  and  gazed  at  her 
reflection  in  the  cool  water. 

"  Really,  I  grow  more  beautiful  every  day," 
she  murmured,  pleased  and  excited. 

She  knelt  down  behind  a  rock  and  began  to 
undress,  now  and  again  turning  her  eyes  in  the 
direction  from  which  she  expected  her  flute- 
player  to  come.  But  when  her  garments  were 
ready  for  taking  off,  she  did  not  remove  them; 
instead,  she  sat  down  and  surveyed  the  romantic 
and  picturesque  village  below. 

Yes,  it  was  romantic  enough,  she  thought,  but 
it  was  so  stupidly  familiar.  She  knew  every 
house,  every  tree,  every  rock,  and  if  she  did  not 
know  every  man,  woman,  and  child,  it  was 
because  she  did  not  care  to.  Yet,  after  all, 
people  mattered  enormously.  The  most  seduc- 
tive scenery  in  the  world  was  not  romantic 
except  in  its  relationship  to  human  beings.  And 
even  this  boy,  this  flute-player,  had  a  certain  air, 
an  atmosphere,  something  of  distinction  and 
attraction. 

With  sudden  impatience  and  self-disgust,  she 
shook  herself,  and  then  leaned  over  the  edge  of 
the  water. 

"Fool!"  she  ejaculated  to  her  reflection; 
"  sentimentalist !  He  is  a  little  nincompoop  and 
you  know  it.  You  are  going  to  teach  him  a 
lesson:  you  are  going  to  terrify  him  out  of 
his  wits." 

Raising  her  head,  she  saw  the  object  of  her 

29 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

thoughts  issuing  from  the  outskirts  of  the  village 
and  making  his  way  up  the  mountain  to  the 
pool.  He  walked  with  an  easy  stride. 

Hastily  she  took  off  her  clothes,  hid  them  in  a 
cleft  of  the  rocks,  and  stepped  into  the  water 
which  took  her  beautiful  body  with  a  laugh  and 
a  sigh.  She  swam  about  for  a  minute  or  two 
and  then,  calculating  that  by  now  he  would  be 
near  at  hand  —  the  intervening  rocks  hid  him 
from  sight  —  she  swam  to  a  little  narrow  bay 
where  the  water  was  deep,  and  where  she  was 
hidden  from  view,  and  clung  with  her  finger-tips 
to  a  ledge  in  the  rocks. 

The  wrinkled  surface  of  the  pool  had  only  just 
had  time  to  become  smooth  again,  when  the 
flute-player,  very  silently,  walked  to  the  fig-tree 
and  sat  down  in  its  shade.  Almost  immediately 
he  began  to  play,  and  the  melodies  he  invented 
were  very  melancholy.  Katya  smiled  with  malice, 
though  she  approved  of  and  liked  his  skill. 

"  What  a  clever  little  fool  it  is !  "  she  said  to 
herself,  as,  giving  herself  to  the  water  and 
pressing  her  feet  against  the  side  of  the  rock,  she 
pushed  herself  out  toward  the  middle  of  the 
pool  and  began  slowly  to  swim  in  the  flute- 
player's  direction.  So  quickly  did  she  go,  and 
so  absorbed  was  he  in  his  music,  that  he  did  not 
see  her  even  when  she  was  within  a  dozen  yards 
of  him  and  was  standing,  the  water  reaching  to 
her  waist,  regarding  him  with  wide,  malicious 
eyes.  She  raised  her  hands  and  brought  them 
down  on  the  water  with  a  heavy  splash. 

A  run  he  was  playing  broke  in  the  middle  like 

30 


KATYA     KONTOROMPA 

a  thread  that  is  snapped,  and,  startled,  he  let  his 
instrument  fall  to  the  ground.  His  eyes  had  the 
look  of  one  whose  dreams  have  come  true;  it 
was  as  though  he  had  been  evoking  a  nymph 
and  she  had  at  last  arrived.  Motionless  and 
absorbed,  he  stared  at  her,  his  eyes  very  round, 
his  lips  parted;  but  he  spoke  no  word,  and 
something  in  the  earnestness  of  his  gaze  —  a  look 
a  little  unearthly,  indeed,  holy  —  made  her,  who 
had  wished  to  frighten  him,  herself  afraid. 
There  was  no  abashed  look  in  his  eyes,  as  she  had 
expected,  no  look  of  dismay,  no  hint  of  fear: 
merely  an  expression  of  incredulity  —  the  look 
of  a  boy  to  whom  a  long-awaited  miracle  has  at 
last  happened. 

Their  long  gaze  into  each  others'  eyes  lasted 
many  moments,  and  as  his  eyes  did  not  droop 
under  hers,  but  indeed,  stared  and  stared 
unflinchingly,  Katya  began  to  experience  the 
shame  of  a  child  who  has  been  discovered  in 
some  wickedness.  She  had  expected  him,  on  her 
appearing,  to  run  away  in  terror  and  shocked 
modesty.  If  he  had  blushed  even,  or  had  looked 
confused,  or  had  turned  his  back  upon  her,  or 
exhibited  any  of  the  signs  of  awkwardness  and 
shame,  she  would  have  known  how  to  continue 
the  comedy.  But  he  accepted  her.  Moreover, 
she  knew  that  some  wonder  had  been  expected 
from  that  water.  To  him  she  was  not  human, 
but  the  spirit  of  the  pool  come  at  the  bidding  of 
his  music. 

Her  courage  and  her  impertinence  deserted 
her,  and,  with  a  sudden  movement,  she  dis- 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

appeared  under  the  water,  and  swam  back  to 
the  deep  bay  where  she  had  left  her  clothing. 
She  heard  him  cry  out  excitedly,  and,  with  equal 
excitement,  she  swam  towards  the  edge  of  the 
water,  touched  the  ground  with  her  feet  and 
began  to  walk  to  the  shore.  He  was  there 
waiting  for  her,  for  he  had  run  rapidly  round  the 
pool,  and  now  stood  with  his  flute  in  his  hand, 
his  face  full  of  ecstasy,  with  white  teeth  shining  in 
the  sun. 

For  a  few  moments  he  stood  thus  on  a  high 
rock  looking  down  upon  her.  But  when  she  had 
reached  the  cleft  where  her  clothes  were  hidden, 
and  when  he  saw  her  take  them  in  her  hands, 
his  face  instantly  changed  from  ecstasy  to  be- 
wilderment, and  then  from  bewilderment  to 
loathing. 

"  It's  you  —  you  —  you  \  You  dreadful  black 
woman !  "  he  called  out. 

She  raised  her  head  to  look  at  him,  and  saw 
that  he  was  trembling  with  anger.  His  brown 
face  was  yellow  and  distorted.  He  tried  to 
speak  some  more  words,  but  his  throat  choked 
him,  and  his  inability  to  speak  increased  his 
anger  so  greatly  that  all  his  body  shook  like  one 
convulsed. 

Raising  his  flute  on  high,  he  threw  it  into  the 
water  with  terrific  force,  and,  turning,  ran  up  the 
mountain  side  with  a  frantic  speed  that  had  not 
decreased  when  she  could  no  longer  see  him.  .  .  . 

Pressing  her  white  dress  to  her  face,   Katya 
wept   and   wept.     She   wept   with   shame,    with 
mortification.  .  .  .  She  wept  with  love. 
32 


THE    BATHS    MURDER 


To 

Edwin  Morrow 


BEFORE  you  had  crossed  the  threshold 
you  felt  the  humid  air  as  it  stealthily 
assaulted  your  flesh,  and  the  dank  stone 
couches,  some  bare  and  perspiring,  others  half 
covered  with  painted  rags,  gave  the  impression 
of  tawdry  self-indulgence. 

I  have  tried  many  times  to  determine  precisely 
what  it  was  about  those  cavernous  baths  that 
gave  me  the  impression  of  wickedness,  and 
because  my  attempts  have  always  been  unsuc- 
cessful I  have  been  driven  to  entertain  the 
possibility  that  the  wickedness  lay  in  myself, 
and  was  evoked  by  the  semi-darkness,  the  drip 
of  water,  the  lamps  that  flickered  but  did  not 
die,  the  humid  air,  the  long  treacherous  corridors, 
the  dirty  domes,  and  the  soft  secrecy  of  scandals 
stealing  up  the  stair:  But  why  should  these 
things,  either  separately  or  collectively,  suggest 
evil?  I  do  not  know.  But  they  did.  They  do. 
And  the  little  poisoned  glasses  of  cognac  which, 
one  by  one,  used  to  be  placed  at  one's  side  so 
that  one  might  sip  before  and  after  sleep,  seemed 
to  me  lewd  and  violently  unnecessary.  .  .  . 

In  that  place  worked  Aristides  Kronothos,  lean 
Kronothos,  who,  with  his  lack-lustre  eyes,  his 
long,  dangling  arms,  and  air  of  patient  resignation 
hid,  and  hid  well,  the  venom  in  his  breast.  A 
year  ago  he  lived  in  Soho  with  his  wife  and 
worshipped  child.  To  their  little  restaurant 
came  a  man  of  mixed  blood  —  some  Armenian, 
some  Montenegrin  — -  who,  with  money  and  prom- 
ises, stole  Aristides'  wife  and  left  England  for 
Greece.  Kronothos,  having  knowledge  of  his 

35 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

lair  in  Salonika,  sold  his  business  and  followed. 
He  loved  desperately  and  hated  desperately. 
But  the  man  of  mixed  blood  was  well  protected, 
and  seemed  out  of  reach  of  all  revenge,  for 
though  it  is  true  that  Kronothos,  almost  any  day, 
might  have  slit  his  throat  in  full  view  of  the 
street  and  its  people,  he  had  no  desire  to  be 
caught  and  punished.  He  felt  greatly,  pro- 
foundly; but  he  did  not  feel  tragically.  His 
skin  was  of  immeasurable  value  to  himself. 

So  he  used  to  go  about  his  work  in  those  cave- 
like  baths  feeling  thwarted,  and  I  am  told  that, 
on  slack  days,  he  would  sit,  chin  in  hand, 
brooding,  his  unfocused  eyes  looking  into  space- 
less space,  his  long,  lean  neck  jutting  ostrich- 
like  from  his  towel-robe,  his  nervy  fingers 
twitching. 

He  was  a  good  worker.  Rompapas  told  me 
that.  Rompapas  always  insisted  to  me  that 
Aristides  Kronothos  had  an  almost  extravagant 
sense  of  duty.  For  example,  he  would  stay 
after  hours  hosing  and  even  scrubbing  the  filthy 
corridors,  trying  to  vanquish  their  musty  smell; 
and  so  constant  and  devoted  was  he  that  in  time 
he  was  entrusted  with  the  keys  of  the  great 
watery  and  wandering  place,  and  would  lock  up 
two  or  three  hours  before  midnight,  and  dismally 
seek  his  dismal  room. 


Half  drunk  and  full  of  vanity,  the  man  of 
mixed  blood  —  George  Georges  was  his  fantastic 
name  —  plunged  out  of  the  Olympos  Hotel  and 
36 


THE     BATHS    MURDER 

bawled  for  a  gharry.  At  his  command  three 
came.  His  great,  hulking  body  sank  into  the 
first  and  bent  its  crazy  framework  into  a 
capital  U. 

The  city  had  just  lit  its  myriad  lights,  and  the 
sky  was  like  purple  velvet.  Georges  gave  it  a 
contemptuous  glance,  and  as  the  driver  turned 
round  for  orders,  his  temporary  master  waved  a 
fat  hand  in  the  air  and  grunted : 

"  Anywhere !  Take  me  out  of  this  damned 
hole!" 

But  which  damned  hole  he  meant  the  driver 
did  not  know,  for  Georges'  gesture  embraced  the 
universe.  The  gharry  jolted  and  swayed  along 
the  quay  and,  turning  to  the  left,  entered  a  semi- 
suburban  region  of  large  houses,  evil  smells,  and 
gutter  children.  It  was  dark  here,  and  Georges 
hated  darkness. 

'  Take  me  out  of  this  damned  hole  as  well,"  he 
shouted. 

And  in  a  minute  they  emerged  into  Rue 
Egnatia  and  passed  the  Baths.  Georges  had  a 
thought. 

"  I'll  get  washed,"  said  he.  "  And  after  that," 
he  added,  for  he  was  a  man  of  some  education 
and  humour,  "  I  will  stay  me  with  flagons  and 
comfort  myself  with  apples." 

So  he  stopped  the  gharry,  alighted,  and, 
paying  his  driver  rather  regally,  turned  to  the 
Baths. 

He  arrived  at  the  precise  moment  when 
Aristides  Kronothos,  having  decided  that  further 
custom  that  night  was  most  improbable,  was 

37 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

about  to  discard  his  towel-robe  and  don  his 
ordinary  garments.  In  those  dim  Baths  he  saw 
his  enemy  and  recognized  him,  and,  shrinking 
behind  a  pillar,  said  in  a  high-pitched  assumed 
voice  : 

"  Perhaps  His  Highness  will  take  a  room  on 
the  right." 

Georges  rolled  up  the  half-dozen  steps  and 
entered  the  room. 


Aristides  was  a  man  of  great  resource  and 
some  courage,  and  when  his  mind,  trumpet-like, 
had  shouted  to  him:  "  My  moment  has  arrived!  " 
he  ran  quickly  to  the  outer  door,  bolting  and 
locking  it.  Then  he  sped  to  a  little  chamber, 
turned  on  a  light  and  seized  a  razor.  .  .  . 

There  is  no  disguise  like  disfigurement,  and 
within  two  minutes  Aristides  had  shaved  off  his 
eyebrows,  taken  out  his  prominent  false  teeth, 
and  cut  a  deep  gash  in  his  right  cheek.  The 
sight  of  his  own  blood,  as  it  fell  into  the  bowl  of 
water  he  had  prepared,  excited  him  excessively, 
and  as  he  swathed  the  lower  part  of  his  face  in 
bandages  he  breathed  stertorously,  and  his  eyes 
began  to  glitter  with  internal  light.  But  he 
worked  quickly  and  without  clumsiness,  and  he 
smiled  with  satisfaction  as  he  saw  his  thin  blood 
creeping  and  spreading  on  the  bandage  like  red 
ink  on  blotting-paper. 

"  It  must  just  show,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  not 
enough  to  alarm  or  sicken  him,  but  sufficient  to 
assure  him  that  my  bandage  is  necessary." 
38 


THE     BATHS     MURDER 

By  now  Georges  was  clapping  his  hands  and 
calling  for  cognac,  and  it  was  a  very  large 
glassful  that  Aristides,  obsequiously  bowing, 
handed  to  him  a  moment  later. 

"  God !  "  exclaimed  Georges,  "  you  are  bleed- 
ing." 

'  Yes,"  said  Aristides,  "  but  it  is  nothing." 

"  But  I  wanted  a  massage,  and  you  look 
ill." 

"  I  assure  you,  it  is  nothing.  It  does  not  even 
hurt." 

Georges  drank  the  cognac  with  a  gulp,  and 
sighed  with  vexation. 

u  I  hate  to  see  wounds,"  he  said,  "  are  you 
sure  your  bandage  is  securely  fixed?  " 

'  Your  Highness  need  not  be  afraid.  I  shall 
not  take  off  my  bandage  while  Your  Highness  is 
here.  And  it  will  not  slip,"  he  added  with  a 
humour  that  he  felt  to  be  daring. 

'  Very  well,  then :  I'm  ready.  Sandals  —  a 
small  pair." 

His  wooden  sandals  clicked  down  the  steps  as 
he  followed  Aristides.  In  single  file  they  crossed 
the  large  court-like  entrance  hall,  entered  a 
passage  that  twisted  and  turned  inconsequently, 
passed  through  a  room  whose  ceiling  dripped 
incessantly,  found  another  passage,  and,  turning 
suddenly  to  the  right,  entered  a  circular  room 
whose  ceiling  was  a  blind  dome.  Here  also  the 
water  dripped. 

"  Like  a  cave,"  observed  Georges,  with  an 
utter  lack  of  originality.  "  One  can  imagine 
stalactites  and  stalagmites  forming  here  and,  in 

39 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

the  course  of  time,  meeting  and  crusting  to- 
gether." 

Aristides  stood  listening  deferentially.  He 
knew  his  man.  He  knew  that  Georges,  with  his 
insatiable  vanity,  was  seeking  to  impress  him. 

Georges  slipped  off  his  towels,  sat  down  on  the 
raised  marble  slab  and  submitted  himself  to  his 
massage. 

Nothing,  of  course,  can  reach  the  mind  except 
through  the  channel  of  the  senses.  Yet  some- 
thing reached  Georges'  mind  that  his  eyes  did 
not  see,  nor  his  ears  hear,  nor  his  flesh  feel. 
Fear  began  to  bud  and  blossom  in  his  mind  like 
a  monstrous  fungus.  Yet,  curiously,  he  did  not 
fear  Aristides:  he  feared  himself. 

'  You  are  a  clever  masseur, "  he  observed, 
thinking  banal  conversation  might  rid  him  of  his 
terror. 

"  I  am  glad  Your  Highness  thinks  so." 

Aristides  stopped  in  his  work.  He  was  kneel- 
ing by  the  side  of  his  enemy,  and  he  fixed  his 
glittering  eyes  on  him  with  hate-hunger. 

"  I  think  I've  been  massaged  enough,"  said 
Georges,  feeling  suddenly  sick.  "  I  am  not  very 
well.  Perhaps  it  was  the  cognac.  .  .  .  How 
silent  this  place  is!  No  sound  but  water 
dripping." 

"  We  are  here  alone,"  said  Aristides.  Though 
he  spoke  with  no  meaning  in  his  tone,  Georges 
started  violently  and  looked  at  the  closed  door. 

"  Yes,  it  is  locked,"  said  Aristides. 

And,  without  a  word,  the  masseur  rose  lan- 
guidly to  his  feet,  crossed  the  little  chamber,  and 
40 


THE     BATHS     MURDER 

sat  on  the  only  chair  it  contained.  Georges 
raised  himself  to  a  sitting  posture.  His  flabby 
face  was  pale,  and  involuntarily  he  looked  up  at 
the  windowless  domes. 

'There  is  no  way  out  here,"  said  Aristides, 
smiling  grimly. 

"  No.  Why  should  there  be?  Will  you  fetch 
me  some  water?  I  feel  faint  and  damnably 
sick." 

44  Certainly." 

Aristides  brought  a  glass  from  a  cupboard, 
filled  it  with  water,  and  handed  it  to  his 
enemy. 

Georges,   having  drained   its   last   drop,   rose, 
swayed  for  a  moment,  and  sat  down,  wiping  his 
perspiring  forehead  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 
'  You  look  ill,"  said  Aristides. 

"  I  have  drunk  too  much,  I  think.  I  drank 
on  an  empty  stomach.  Help  me  out  into  the 
cooler  air.  All  the  air  here  has  been  used  up:  it 
has  been  through  a  hundred  lungs." 

But  Aristides  did  not  move  to  help  him.  For 
a  full  minute  there  was  silence :  a  great  silence 
emphasized  by  the  drip-drip-drip  of  water  within 
the  circular  room.  Georges  was  dimly  aware  of 
the  water  vapour  rising  from  the  wet  marble 
floor,  and  some  strange  inquiring  part  of  his 
brain  wondered  why  the  vapour  made  no  noise 
as  it  floated  upwards  through  the  dome.  At 
length  his  wandering  eyes  were  caught  and  held 
by  the  eyes  of  Aristides,  whose  glance  was  sharp 
and  poisoned.  Georges  recoiled  a  little. 

"  Surely  I  have  seen  you  before?  "  he  asked. 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  It  is  possible.  It  is  likely.  But  I  do  not 
remember  our  meeting.  .  .  .  Does  Your  High- 
ness feel  better  now?" 

"  A  little.  But  I  want  air." 
And  then  Georges  suddenly  began  to  tremble, 
for  as  he  stopped  speaking  he  became  blindingly 
aware  of  the  identity  of  his  masseur.  His 
physical  cowardice  was  astonishing,  but  he  had 
a  bold,  sinewy  mind,  and  he  summoned  all  its 
subtlety  to  his  aid. 

"  Good  God !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  welcoming 
smile,  "  you're  Kronothos  !  How  extraordinary  ! 
But  I  thought  all  along,  somehow,  that  I  knew 
you." 

He  held  out  his  hand  with  a  great  gesture  of 
pleasure.  Aristides  took  it,  and  with  his  own 
communicated  to  Georges  an  indefinable  feeling 
of  impending  woe.  He  did  not  speak. 

"But  you  must  have  recognized  me  \  "  urged 
Georges.  "  Why  did  you  not  say  so?  We  were 
friends  once,  you  know." 

Aristides  saw  his  fear  and  loved  it. 
"  Once    it    did    certainly   seem    as    though    we 
were    friends,"    he    admitted,    "  but    now,    you 
see,   I   am  the  husband  of  the  woman  you  live 
with." 

Terror  shook  Georges  in  his  very  vitals,  and  he 
leaned  over  as  though  to  vomit. 

"  Ah !  Yes,  yes !  "  he  muttered.  And  his 
consciousness  seemed  to  dart  about  in  his  brain 
like  a  ferret  in  its  cage. 

Aristides  stood  savouring  the  quaking  fear  of 
his  victim,  but  it  was  with  difficulty  he  prevented 
42 


THE     BATHS     MURDER 

himself  from  rushing  upon  his  enemy  and 
crushing  out  his  life. 

"  Your  Highness  will  wait  here  a  little  time 
whilst  I  tidy  up,"  he  said. 

And  he  began  folding  the  towels  and  swabbing 
the  floor.  Georges,  sitting  with  his  elbow  on  his 
knee  and  his  chin  in  his  hand,  watched  him  with 
apprehensive  eyes.  Finding  this  period  of  wait- 
ing no  longer  bearable,  he  said,  humbly: 

;' Will  you  let  me  go?  I  am  too  ill  to.  .  .  . 
You  know,  I  am  not  entirely  to  blame.  She  was 
tired  of  you.  .  .  .  Living  with  you  made 
her  .  .  ." 

He  stopped,  fearing  to  speak  more.     Then: 

"  Please  let  me  go,"  he  added. 

With  a  bound  Aristides  was  upon  him,  his 
wiry  hands  about  Georges'  fat  throat,  his  finger- 
tips disappearing  as  far  as  the  first  joint  into  the 
flesh  of  his  wife's  seducer.  He  held  on  viciously, 
his  fingers  as  firm  and  frenzied  as  a  bulldog's 
teeth.  Georges  rolled  over  on  his  back,  his 
muscleless  arms  waving  in  the  air  like  branches 
swayed  by  a  breeze,  and  a  sound,  half  groan,  half 
hiss,  came  from  him  as  Aristides  pressed  his 
right  knee  on  his  enemy's  chest.  It  lasted  little 
more  than  a  minute,  and  at  length  the  fat  man 
of  mixed  blood  lay  soft  and  limp  upon  the 
couch  of  marble  whilst  Aristides,  exhausted,  sat 
examining  him  eagerly.  .  .  . 

If  you  wish,  you  can  be  with  him  for  a  moment. 
In  those  spacious,  thick-walled  Baths  there  is 
always  deep  silence  save  when  customers  and 
workers  are  there;  but  the  silence  is  constantly 

43 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

broken  by  big  drops  of  water  that  fall  from  roof 
and  walls  to  the  paved  floor.  As  you  listen, 
there  appears  to  be  some  purpose  in  this  sound: 
some  elaborate  scheming,  maybe:  some  nefarious 
business  afoot.  It  is  the  persistence  of  it  that 
counts,  and  it  is  the  deliberateness  of  it  that 
makes  you  suspect  conspiracies. 

After  violence  there  is  always  reaction,  and  a 
reaction  came  to  Aristides  very  quickly  as  he  sat 
dumbly  looking  on  the  dead  body  of  his  victim. 
He  had  a  feeling  of  approaching  catastrophe  —  a 
feeling  that  implied  that  what  had  happened  was 
as  nothing  compared  with  what  was  about  to 
happen.  Disaster  had  been  released,  like  a  lion, 
from  its  den,  and  ravage  must  necessarily  follow. 
He,  so  careful  of  his  own  life,  felt  himself  drawn, 
dragged,  into  disaster.  And  the  agent  of  disaster 
was  himself. 

He  rose,  gave  a  final  frightened  glance  at  the 
body,  unlocked  the  door,  and  stumbled  his  way 
to  the  entrance  of  the  building.  He  wanted  to 
run  quickly  and  unthwarted  to  his  doom.  So  he 
cast  off  his  towel-robe  and  began  to  don  his 
outdoor  clothing.  And  as  he  dressed  he  kept 
repeating  to  himself: 

"  Kalamaria !  Kalamaria  I  I  will  go  to  Kala- 
maria  to  die." 

For  beyond  Kalamaria,  where  the  little  cliffs 
are,  the  sea  is  deep,  and  the  water  would  take 
his  body  and  smother  it.  He  did  not  want  to 
die,  and  a  deep  fear  shook  his  heart  as  he  thought 
of  death.  But  he  could  not  help  himself.  Some- 
thing within  him  —  the  lion  he  had  let  loose  — 
44 


THE     BATHS     MURDER 

was  driving  and  goading  him  on  towards  death: 
his  terror  of  death  was  as  nothing  compared  with 
his  terror  of  discovery,  for  discovery  would  mean 
prolonged  torture  as  well  as  death,  and  he  had 
already  been  tortured  to  his  soul's  full  capacity. 

What  could  bring  him  solace?  Drink.  Of 
course.  The  very  word  already  soothed  him,  as 
the  promise  to  lend  money  immediately  soothes 
the  eager  borrower.  He  took  a  bottle  of  cognac 
from  the  shelf  and  drank  deeply  and  agitatedly. 
The  liquid  burnt  his  throat  and  stoutened  his 
heart.  He  stopped  and  gasped  for  breath,  and 
then  drank  again,  and  again  gasped.  Yes:  yes: 
the  stuff  was  already  averting  disaster:  the  lion 
would,  in  the  latter  end,  pass  him  by.  For,  after 
all,  what  had  he  done?  Simply  an  act  of 
justice.  Nothing  more.  An  act  of  bare  justice, 
for  was  it  not  right  that  a  seducer  of  women 
should  die?  He  had,  it  is  true,  taken  the  law 
into  his  own  hands.  But  what  man  wouldn't? 
What  man  doesn't?  .  .  . 

Oh,  yes:  he  felt  much  happier,  much  stronger, 
now.  Nearly,  very  nearly,  he  was  content. 
The  cognac  fumes  dizzied  his  brain,  and  as  he 
rose  to  leave  the  Baths,  he  lurched  and  laughed 
insanely  at  himself  for  doing  so.  Turning  out 
the  lights,  he  opened  the  door  and  looked  into 
Rue  Egnatia  twenty  yards  or  so  away.  The 
shops  were  lit:  there  was  plenty  of  traffic:  an 
electric  tram  clattered  by.  The  entire  city, 
except  these  loathsome  Baths,  seemed  very 
friendly.  And  he  was  about  to  issue  forth  into 
the  night  when  the  thought  of  the  unconsumed 

45 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

cognac  came  to  him.  If  the  half-bottle  he  had 
already  drunk  had  killed  his  fear,  would  not  the 
remainder  remove  the  very  cause  of  that  fear? 
The  drink-fumes  in  his  brain  assured  him  it 
would,  and  he  re-entered  the  baths,  felt  his  way 
to  the  shelf,  and  carefully  groped  for  the  bottle 
his  soul  desired.  He  found  it  and  drank  deeply. 

And  then  he  sat  down  and  began  dully  to 
think  —  a  stupefied  brain  in  an  exhausted  body. 
The  bottle  fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  the 
liquor,  pouring  out,  filled  the  air  with  the  thick, 
sickly  smell  of  scented  alcohol.  Through  the 
open  door  came  a  stray  dog;  it  gazed  round  in 
the  darkness  and  wandered  away. 

Throughout  that  night  Aristides  Kronothos 
slept  heavily  and  dreamlessly  —  slept  for  an  hour 
or  two  in  a  sitting  posture  until,  swaying  a  little, 
he  overbalanced  himself  and  fell  stupidly  and 
without  protest  to  the  floor.  It  was  there, 
Rompapas  told  me,  that  he  was  found  next 
morning,  still  crazy  with  liquor,  still  confident 
that  he  had  averted  disaster. 

When  last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  in  the 
Citadel  —  a  mild,  gentle  figure,  pathetically 
happy,  and  with  a  keen  and  soul-comforting  re- 
membrance of  his  last  encounter  with  George 
Georges. 


THE    DREAMER 


To 

Edith  Heald 


EVERY  few  years,  gathering  his  small 
savings  together,  he  left  intolerable  Sa- 
lonika and  went  to  Athens  where  he 
dreamed  away  a  month  of  spring  on  the  Acropolis, 
in  the  great  weed-overgrown  cemetery  where 
remnants  of  ancient  beauty  lie  broken  and  marred, 
and  in  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  in  which  he  imagined 
he  could  hear  faint  music,  and  where,  of  a  surety, 
he  witnessed  dim  processional  rites  unseen  by 
others.  And  always  a  few  days  were  spent  in 
Eleusis  —  fever-stricken  Eleusis,  so  foul  to-day, 
so  fair  yesterday:  Eleusis  that  still  holds  its 
Mysteries  known  only  to  the  gods:  Eleusis 
where,  each  morning  at  dawn,  he  issued  from  the 
muddy,  sordid  inn  and,  slipping  off  his  white 
tunic,  bathed  in  the  ^Egean,  singing  to  himself 
and  gazing  long  and  long  into  the  clear  waters. 

Athens  to  him  was  a  White  Paradise,  and  he 
would  have  left  Salonika  years  since  to  make  his 
home  there  had  not  his  bedridden  mother  clung 
with  increasing  fretfulness  to  the  gaudy  city 
where  her  forefathers  had  lived  ever  since  the 
great  exodus  of  Jews  from  Spain,  centuries  ago. 
To  her  son,  Salonika  was  hateful,  for  it  was  ever 
in  conflict  with  his  dreams,  and  dreams  were  his 
life.  They  kept  his  soul  winging.  Whereas 
Athens  threw  him  into  a  quiet  ecstasy.  The 
present  slipped  into  nothingness,  and  the  past 
lived.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  certain  marble  figure  in  the 
museum  which  seemed  to  him  to  hold  all  Ancient 
Greece  in  its  limbs  and  face.  ...  A  green  lizard 
clinging,  sun-smitten,  to  a  white  wall  seemed  to 

49 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

belong  to  a  remote  age;  and  a  valley  full  of 
white  butterflies  —  butterflies  so  thickly  clustered 
that  they  looked  like  dancing  snow  —  was  even 
now  haunted  by  Pan.  And  at  night  the  moon 
on  the  marble  of  the  Parthenon  made  him  giddy 
with  the  piercing  realness  of  life.  .  .  . 

But  this  evening  he  was  at  home,  standing  at 
his  shop-door  at  the  corner  of  the  Place  de  la 
Liberte.  He  gazed  with  shy  eagerness  up  Veni- 
zelos  Street,  that  ill-paved  gutter  of  a  street 
where  Birmingham  and  Hamburg  jewelry  com- 
pete with  one  another  for  Jewish  gold.  Here, 
every  evening,  he  was  to  be  seen,  and,  when  no 
customer  was  in  his  shop  bargaining  for  a  cast 
of  Venus  or  for  some  piece  of  ivory  carved  by 
the  Dreamer's  sensitive  hands,  he  would  stand 
there  in  the  daytime  also,  his  rather  tired  eyes 
full  of  hunger.  For  —  but  it  was  not  likely  — 
she  might  come  by  day,  though  a  years-old  intu- 
ition insisted  that  the  time  of  her  arrival  would  be 
some  evening  between  sunset  and  dark. 

Many  people  knew  him  and  saluted  him  as 
they  passed  by:  to  these  salutes  he  responded 
gravely,  and  a  little  dignified  gesture  of  his 
hands  spoke  in  duet  with  his  voice :  "  God  be 
with  you!  I  pray  you,  do  not  speak  to  me." 
Hands  so  beautiful  might  well  have  made  him 
vain,  but  he  never  thought  of  himself.  And 
though  he  lived  so  intensely,  he  was  very  rarely 
conscious  of  his  happiness  except  each  night 
when,  having  closed  the  street-door,  he  sought 
his  bed  with  strange  relief. 

Venizelos  Street  was  never  beautiful,  or  even 
50 


THE     DREAMER 

picturesque,  till  the  great  fire  of  August  1917 
came  like  a  giant  and,  in  a  few  hours,  twisted  it 
to  fantastic  shapes.  And  the  Dreamer  loathed 
it,  though  he  made  himself  spend  many  hours  of 
each  day  in  gazing  upon  its  squalidness,  his  eyes 
ranging  from  the  Place  de  la  Liberte  up  to  the 
point  where  the  street  narrows  and  the  Arcade 
and  the  Bazaars  begin.  But  he  had  one  of  the 
secrets  of  happiness:  he  could  look  at  things 
and  not  see  them:  better,  far  better,  he  could 
see  things  that  were  not  there.  Stein's  steel- 
walled  shop  did  not  exist:  Orosdi  Back  had 
never  been  there  with  his  wine  and  pickles : 
Tiring  was  only  the  faint  echo  of  a  name. 
Salonika's  life-blood  moved  sluggishly  in  that 
main  artery;  but  the  slowness  was  a  predatory 
slowness  —  the  cautious  movement  of  men  and 
women  for  ever  on  the  prowl.  Sometimes  his 
eyes  would  rest  for  a  moment  on  the  discontented 
rich  as  they  sat  on  their  little  chairs  outside 
Floca's,  drinking  syrups  and  haggling  over  prices. 
They  were  nearly  as  unreal  to  him  as  Jesus 
Christ  is  to  the  Christian. 

He  rarely  glanced  towards  the  sea,  for  he  was 
sure  she  would  not  come  that  way.  The  moun- 
tains were  her  home.  She  would  come  drifting 
like  a  wraith,  and,  leaving  the  mountains,  place 
her  tiny  feet  on  the  plain,  flutter  past  Lembet 
and  Karaissi,  enter  the  town,  and,  turning  to  the 
left  down  Rue  Egnatia,  reach  this  ugly  street 
that  sloped  to  and  ended  in  the  tideless  sea. 
Surely,  crocuses  and  anemones  would  bloom  on 
the  pavement  when  she  came,  and  with  her 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

would  come  the  stirring  of  a  breeze.  It  must 
be  so:  he  had  pictured  it  so  often.  She  had 
radiant  eyes,  he  knew.  She  had  always  been 
young,  ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  world. 
Youth  was  hers  for  ever.  And  her  hair  .  .  .  his 
heart  leapt,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  hand 
was  about  his  heart:  his  heart  cupped  in  her 
hand:  a  hand  cool  and,  in  some  curious  way, 
conscious  of  itself.  Her  hair  was  in  his  eyes, 
blinding  them.  A  great  light  shone  about  her. 

When  she  came,  she  would  not  speak  to  him: 
but,  all  the  same,  she  would  know.  That  was 
what  he  was  waiting  for,  living  for:  that  she 
should  know. 

A  complaining  voice  came  from  the  room  just 
above  his  head.  Turning  swiftly,  he  passed 
through  the  shop  where  a  few  pieces  of  statuary 
gleamed  white  against  the  walls  and  shelves 
painted  black,  and  quickly  mounted  the  stair- 
case. 

"  God  be  with  you,  mamma !  "  he  breathed,  as 
he  bent  over  a  little  curled-up  figure  that  lay  on 
a  bed  near  the  window.     The  paralysed  woman 
murmured  a  little  something  he  could  not  hear. 
•  "  I  am  here,"  he  said.     "  Feel  me." 

And  he  placed  a  lean  cheek  against  one  of  her 
hands. 

A  devastating  weakness  overcame  her  and  she 
cried  a  little,  but  her  weeping,  suffocated  by 
exhaustion,  soon  ceased.  She  lay  still  and 
seemingly  asleep,  and  the  Dreamer,  kneeling  by 
her  side,  felt  pity  rising  like  a  fountain  in  his 
heart.  Her  sallow  face  was  like  his  own,  aristo- 
52 


THE     DREAMER 

cratic,  broad-browed,  patient.  The  eyes  were 
still  full  of  Jewish  ardour.  He  worshipped  her 
always  as  a  devotee  worships  the  Madonna.  It 
was  she  who  had  quickened  his  love  for  the 
Beauty  that  lies  behind  beautiful  things,  who 
had  taught  him  that  all  life  was  a  Seeming,  who 
had  added  glamour  and  twilight  and  witchery  to 
his  entire  environment. 

"  Great  little  mamma!  "  he  whispered. 

She  smiled  wanly  and  opened  her  eyes  for  a 
brief  instant. 

"  Were  vou  watching?  "  she  asked. 

At  this  he  started  guiltily,  for  he  had  told  no 
one,  not  even  his  mother,  why  he  stood  nightly 
at  the  street-door. 

'  Yes,"  he  said  simply. 

"My  poor  son!"  she  murmured,  her  face 
tense  with  anxiety.  "  What  you  wait  for  will 
never  come." 

"  No?  .  .  .  But  if  she  did,  and  I  were  not 
there?  You  see  how  it  is,  mamma.  I  must  be 
there." 

"  Yes,  yes.  One  must  always  be  there,  wait- 
ing." 

Her  face  composed  itself,  and,  after  waiting  a 
few  minutes,  and  thinking  she  slept,  he  tiptoed 
away,  his  heart  rushing  before  him  to  welcome 
the  lady  of  his  dreams. 

(Yet  how  was  it  that,  having  reached  the  door- 
way and  having  darted  a  glance  up  the  street, 
an  expression  of  immeasurable  relief  lit  his  face 
when  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  she  was  not 
coming  down  that  way?) 

53 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

Darkness  was  beginning,  and  demireps  issued 
from  side  streets  to  the  Place.  Greek  women, 
flat-footed  and  unbeautiful,  waddled  by,  virtuous 
and  miserable  in  their  virtue.  They  carried 
virtue  with  them  like  a  shroud.  The  demireps, 
haughty  and  impudent,  were  like  flowers  in  the 
dusk.  Lights  appeared  in  the  shop  windows 
and  the  street  traffic  ebbed.  Plashing  of  waves 
against  the  quay  almost  level  with  the  water  less 
than  a  hundred  yards  away,  could  faintly  be 
heard.  The  Dreamer,  looking  towards  the  sea 
for  a  robbed  minute,  saw  divine  Olympus,  purple 
and  august,  glowing  and  dying  in  the  glowing 
and  dying  sky.  So  all  beauty  faded  and  died, 
to  be  reborn  richer  for  its  ancestry,  more  wonder- 
ful for  its  age. 

He  sighed,  and  his  hungry  eyes  sought  his 
lady.  His  brain  was  washed  clean  of  life: 
nothing  dwelt  in  his  mind  but  his  dream.  And 
unconsciously  he  clenched  his  hands  to  convince 
himself  for  a  moment  of  his  ecstasy,  and  to  make 
that  ecstasy  more  intense.  .  .  . 

Those  gracious,  tender  figures  on  the  Acropolis ! 
How  chastely  their  garments  hung!  They  had 
only  life  that  was  life,  and  perchance  even  now  — 
oh,  yes,  now,  for  a  faint  slip  of  moon  was  gliding 
down  the  sky  —  they  were  walking,  hand  in  hand, 
silently,  in  the  Parthenon.  They  mysteriously 
were  she,  his  lady,  his  lady  who  must  never 
speak  to  him,  but  who  one  day,  or  one  evening 
like  this,  would  appear  among  this  depravity, 
and,  looking  on  him,  know  and  for  ever  re- 
member. .  .  . 

54 


THE     DREAMER 

The  thought  of  Olympus  dying  away  in  the 
South  came  to  him,  and  he  stole  another  glance 
at  the  mountain's  almost  dead  glory.  Its  sum- 
mit was  white.  A  small  boat  heaped  up  with 
fruit  was  at  the  quay's  edge.  Golden  oranges 
were  massed  together.  .  .  .  Yes:  she  would 
wear  golden  sandals,  and  on  her  wrists  would  be 
gold,  and  gold  would  be  on  her  hair.  .  .  .  His 
impressions  mingled  confusedly;  thought  lay 
dead. 

I  do  not  think  that  in  all  Salonika,  and  perhaps 
in  all  the  world,  there  was  so  happy  a  man  that 
night  as  the  Dreamer  in  his  hours  of  watching 
and  longing. 

He  lingered  in  his  doorway  until  the  streets 
became  silent.  She  was  not  coming.  Not  to- 
night. She  was  not  coming  with  her  everlasting 
youth,  bringing  with  her  also  his  own  renewed 
youth.  For  many  years  he  had  waited,  but 
every  night  she  had  disappointed  him. 

The  night  was  now  full-starred,  for  the  moon 
had  gone.  A  dog,  shapeless  in  the  dark,  nosed 
in  the  gutter.  Two  whispering  old  men  passed 
close  by. 

At  length,  exhausted  by  his  vigil,  the  Dreamer 
turned  and  re-entered  his  shop.  His  happiness, 
his  sense  of  relief,  was  too  great  for  expression. 
As  he  closed  the  door  quickly  behind  him,  it  was 
as  though  he  were  shutting  out  the  Dreadful  One. 
He  stood  dazed  in  the  darkness.  The  oblong 
room  in  which  he  stood  was  perfumed  and  sweet. 
The  white  pieces  of  statuary  standing  against 
the  walls  made  themselves  just  visible;  they 

55 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

seemed  made  of  mist,  intangible;  their  outlines 
were  blurred.  Rubbing  his  eyes,  he  stared  at 
the  statuary  and  smiled.  Then  he  stretched  his 
arms  to  their  utmost  above  his  head  and,  bending 
his  head  back,  turned  his  face  to  the  ceiling.  In 
utmost  weariness  he  stretched  himself  and  yawned. 

And  then,  uttering  a  cry  of  delight,  he  rushed 
upstairs  to  his  mother.  He  fumbled  with  a  lamp 
and  lit  it.  Then  he  went  to  his  mother's  bedside. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  mamma,"  he  said,  "  she  has 
not  come.  It  has  not  happened.  My  dream  has 
not  come  true.  Oh,  I  am  so  happy,  so  very 
happy !  " 

He  kissed  her  cheek.  Her  eyes,  opened  wide, 
searched  him  through  and  through,  as  they  had 
done  on  so  many  occasions. 

"Oh,  my  son,  my  son!"  she  exclaimed, 
pityingly. 

But  he  smiled  with  serene  happiness,  and 
taking  a  wisp  of  her  meagre  hair  between  his 
finger  and  thumb  gently  rubbed  it. 

;'  The  gods  be  with  you,"  he  said,  "  as  they 
are  with  me." 


W  H  E  N  T  H  E  GREEN  ROSESCAME 


To 

Trevor  Johns 


THERE  are  only  two  people  in  this  story: 
Zuleika,  a  large,  indeed  massive,  Jewess 
from   Bucharest,    and   a   rather  elderly 
English  diamond  merchant  with   a   slight  body 
and  a  white  moustache. 

For  some  odd  reason  —  largely,  I  think,  be- 
cause he  was  both  infinitely  courteous  and  gaily 
reckless  —  he  attracted  me,  and,  because  I  had 
been  some  considerable  time  in  Salonika  and  he 
had  only  just  arrived,  he  requested  me  to  "  show 
him  round."  Before  proceeding  to  do  so,  I  asked 
him  what  were  the  three  things  in  the  world  he 
loved  most  of  all.  He  replied  at  once :  "  Anima- 
tion, colour,  and  women." 

'  Then,"  said  I,  "  my  task  is  easy.  Come 
with  me." 

So  we  stepped  into  a  gharry  (we  were  staying 
at  a  farm  a  little  off  the  road  to  Hortiach),  and 
bumped  down  the  Lembet  Road,  past  the 
funny  old  cemetery  on  our  right,  and  stopped 
importantly  in  the  middle  of  that  disastrously 
sordid  square  in  which  the  Rue  Egnatia  and  the 
road  from  Lembet  meet. 

"  And  that's  that,"  remarked  Twelves  as, 
having  stepped  from  the  gharry,  we  watched  it 
waggle  away. 

It  was  May  1913.  The  afternoon  was  late, 
and  a  cool  breeze  swept  along  the  sun-strewn 
street.  My  friend  had  (which  I  have  not)  the 
carriage  of  a  soldier,  and,  though  I  could  give 
him  at  least  three  inches,  I  am  confident  that,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  women  we  met,  he  appeared  to 

59 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

tower  above  me.  I  think  he  was  conscious  of 
this,  though  he  seemed  to  try  to  hide  it.  To 
him,  fresh  from  a  tedious  voyage  from  Bahia, 
Venizelos  Street  was  Paradise,  and  when  we 
came  to  the  Place  de  la  Liberte,  he  stood  and 
looked  at  the  gay  crowd  outside  Floca's  with  a 
slow,  beguiling  smile  about  his  mouth. 

"  I  am  beginning  to  sit  up  and  take  notice," 
he  remarked;  "  this,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  is 
indubitably  IT." 

If  "  IT  "  meant  laughter,  light,  and  delicate 
linen  discreetly  displayed,  he  was  right.  People 
from  all  the  countries  of  Europe  were  there. 
The  ladies,  being  large  and  languid,  and  the 
early  afternoon  having  been  insufferably  hot, 
wore  as  little  as  possible.  This,  Twelves  pointed 
out  with  unnecessary  particularity,  was  precisely 
as  it  should  be. 

But  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  about  Floca's, 
for  the  tragedy  did  not  begin  there;  indeed, 
nothing  really  began  until  well  on  in  the  evening 
when,  as  we  were  starting  dinner  at  the  White 
Tower,  the  sound  of  music  came  to  us  from  the 
adjoining  room. 

"  It  is  Debussy's  *  Les  Poissons  d'or,'  "  said 
Twelves,  swallowing  whitebait,  "  and  this  is  just 
the  right  atmosphere  for  it." 

Then,  placing  his  napkin  upon  the  table,  he 
rose  from  his  seat. 

"  In  a  minute  I  shall  return,"  he  said,  excusing 
himself  and  hastening  from  the  room.  But  ten 
minutes  passed  before  he  rejoined  me,  and  a 
single  glance  at  him  revealed  that  something  of 
60 


WHEN  THE  GREEN  ROSES  CAME 

importance  had  happened  to  him  in  the  mean- 
time. 

"  I've  just  seen  Jezebel,  or  Cleopatra,  or  Zola's 
Nana  in  that  room,"  he  said,  excitedly,  jerking 
his  head  in  the  direction  from  which  the  music 
was  proceeding.  "  She's  stunning.  The  res- 
taurant people  tell  me  they  have  dancing  in 
there  after  dinner  —  dancing  and  music.  Shall 
we  go  ?  " 

A  curious,  half-insane  gleam  of  desire  was  in 
his  eyes;  he  looked  as  though  he  were  on  the 
point  of  attaining  something  for  which  he  had 
been  striving  all  his  life.  His  hands  shook  a 
little  and  he  moistened  his  dry  lips  with  the  tip 
of  his  tongue. 

Now  Salonika  is  the  City  of  Evil  Women,  and 
not  a  few  rapacious  demireps  prowl  like  sleek 
tigers,  subtle  and  wise,  through  the  garish  rooms 
and  prim  gardens  of  the  White  Tower.  They 
are  wonderful  to  look  upon;  their  voices  are  like 
soft  music;  their  hands  are  fluttering  white 
moths;  their  mouths  are  innocently  crooked. 
Gorgeous  works  of  art  they  are,  and,  as  works 
of  art,  entirely  commendable;  but  to  speak  to 
them  is  to  be  poisoned,  and  to  embrace  them  is 
to  place  one's  arms  around  Death.  I  said  as 
much  to  Twelves,  but  he  did  not  appear  to  listen, 
and  as  he  was  at  least  fifteen  years  older  than 
myself  and  a  man  of  more  worlds  than  one,  I  did 
not  venture  to  make  my  words  more  insistent  or 
pointed. 

As  we  were  eating  ices  and  hot  cherries,  the 
music,  which  had  hitherto  been  played  by  a 

61 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

master,  became  vulgar  and  tawdry.  It  was  a 
vapid  valse  given  with  a  lunging  and  immoderate 
accent  on  the  first  beat  of  every  bar. 

'  That's  the  sort  of  thing  that  makes  cities 
loathsome,"  remarked  Twelves,  referring  to  the 
music;  "let's  go  and  stop  it." 

We  arose,  and  I  looked  regretfully  at  six  fat 
red  cherries  which,  against  the  yellow  of  my  ice, 
appeared  almost  purple. 

A  minute  later  we  had  entered  the  great  room 
with  its  stage,  its  smooth  floor,  its  half-moon  of 
boxes.  As  yet  only  a  few  people  were  there; 
they  sat  round  small  tables  imbibing  vicious 
drinks  and  gazing  with  half-contemptuous  amuse- 
ment at  the  pianiste.  I  saw  at  once  that  she 
was  the  woman  who  had  so  rapidly  inflamed 
Twelves'  passion,  for  even  her  back  was  vo- 
luptuous, and  her  neck  reminded  me  of  certain 
passages  in  the  Song  of  Solomon.  She  was  sen- 
suality incarnate  —  sensuality  brainless,  horrific, 
devastating. 

Twelves  walked  up  to  her  and,  placing  his  hand 
firmly  on  one  of  her  white  shoulders,  said: 

"Stop  playing!  You  are  making  yourself 
ridiculous.  Listening  to  you  is  worse  —  infinitely 
worse  —  than  being  in  Clapham.  Come  over 
here  with  my  friend  and  me  and  tell  us  of  some 
of  the  wicked  things  you  have  done." 

Her  eyes  swooped  into  his.  They  were  large 
and  lustrous,  but,  as  they  sank  into  his,  they 
decreased  until  the  pupils  became  mere  points  of 
light.  Then  her  lips  parted  and  she  showed  her 
little  teeth  in  a  broad  smile.  I  noticed  that  her 
62 


WHEN  THE  GREEN  ROSES  CAME 

skin  appeared  as  firm  and  healthy  as  that  of  a 
plum  not  wholly  ripe.  She  ceased  playing  and, 
with  a  sharp  gesture,  banged  her  fist  upon  the 
treble  notes  of  the  piano,  placed  one  hand  upon 
Twelves'  arm  and  the  other  on  mine,  and  walked 
between  us  to  an  unoccupied  table  in  the  far 
corner  of  the  room.  As  she  did  so  she  turned 
and  smiled  triumphantly  at  the  other  ladies  of 
her  profession,  and  her  smile  said:  "See  how 
easily  I  secure  my  prey!  You,  poor  things,  will 
have  to  scheme  and  ogle  till  midnight." 

Even  before  she  was  seated  she  clapped  her 
hands  to  summon  a  waiter,  and  presently  ordered 
a  bottle  of  champagne. 

"  I  always  drink  champagne  with  Englishmen," 
she  observed,  "  Beaume  with  the  French,  and 
with  the  Germans  —  beer!" 

She  looked  at  Twelves  for  his  approval,  and  the 
smile  he  had  ready  for  her  was  ample  assurance 
that  she  had  said  a  very  witty  thing. 

"  I  come  from  Bucharest  and  my  name  is 
Zuleika,"  she  announced,  inconsequently.  Her 
self-satisfaction  was  that  of  a  dellciously  vain 
child.  Then,  with  strange  disconnectedness: 
"  Would  you  like  to  see  my  coins?  "  she  asked. 

We  expressed  the  greatest  interest. 

"  From  Cairo,"  she  said,  as  she  patted  her 
satchel  of  beads  the  colour  of  pigeons'  blood. 
She  took  therefrom  a  number  of  bright  foreign 
coins  and  held  them  in  the  cup  made  by  her 
hollowed  hands. 

But  Twelves  did  not  even  glance  at  them. 

His  strong,  lithe  fingers  were  embedded  in  the 

63 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

white  flesh  of  her  arm,  like  manacles,  and  his 
eyes  held  hers. 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  she  laughed,  "  but  you 
must  be  good  and  patient." 

She  released  her  arm  and  touched  him  lightly 
on  the  cheek  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  smiling 
at  him  all  the  time. 

And  then  the  waiter  placed  a  silver  bucket  of 
ice  on  the  table;  in  the  middle  of  the  ice  wobbled 
a  bottle  of  Moet  and  Chandon.  Zuleika  showed 
her  teeth  in  a  broad  smile,  and  turned  swiftly 
round  to  examine  the  faces  of  those  who,  in  the 
meantime,  had  sat  down  at  neighbouring  tables. 
Her  eyes  gave  a  rapid  signal  to  a  silly-looking 
creature  immediately  behind  her;  he  had  a  face 
of  lard,  a  drooping  moustache,  and  googly  eyes. 

"Ah,  Maestro!"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  his 
hands  with  gipsy  ardour. 

She  turned  round  to  us  just  as  Twelves  was 
taking  a  25-drachma  note  from  his  pocket-book. 
Her  face  immediately  assumed  a  cunning  expres- 
sion, and  she  stretched  out  a  plump  arm,  gripped 
the  bottle  by  the  neck,  and  poured  out  the  wine. 

"  Another  five  drachmas,"  she  said  softly, 
"  that  is  the  price  in  this  room."  Then,  without 
a  second's  pause,  and  holding  her  glass  within  an 
inch  of  her  ear  in  order  to  listen  to  the  icy  hiss : 
"  I  have  been  in  Salonika  three  weeks,"  she 
announced,  "  and  I  think  it  is  very  nice.  And 
you?" 

"  We  both  leave  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

We  clicked  glasses  and  drank.  The  room  was 
rapidly  filling,  and  an  orchestra  of  scarlet-coated 
64 


WHEN  THE  GREEN  ROSES  CAME 

musicians  played  the  latest  Austrian  waltz.  We 
talked  about  nothing,  yet  we  were  not  bored  by 
Zuleika's  brainlessness,  for  Twelves  was  aflame 
with  desire,  and  to  me  she  was  a  new  type  of 
huntress.  Full-bosomed  ladies,  absurdly  con- 
scious of  the  number  and  whiteness  of  their 
teeth,  .have  always  seemed  to  me  much  too 
grotesque  to  love. 

It  was  not  long  before  I  began  to  perceive  that 
Zuleika  had  no  intention  of  succumbing  either  to 
Twelves'  masterfulness  or  his  money.  She  knew 
I  knew  this,  and  was  particularly  charming  to 
me  in  consequence.  She  desired  neither  him 
nor  me:  her  mind  was  in  Twelves'  pocket-book, 
counting  his  money:  but  she  sought  to  make 
me  her  accomplice  by  securing  my  silence.  Her 
design  was  the  design  of  all  hunters  —  to  fasten 
her  teeth  on  her  prey  and  not  lose  hold  while 
there  was  blood  left  to  suck. 

A  watery-eyed  waiter  hovered  near,  like  a  bat. 
She  plucked  his  sleeve. 

"  Another  bottle !  "  she  commanded  impe- 
riously, and,  magically,  it  was  on  the  table  in 
twenty  seconds,  but  this  time  the  neck  of  the 
bottle  emerged  from  a  silver  bucket  filled  with 
white  roses.  Evidently  we  were  now  customers 
worthy  of  special  attention. 

"  C'est  a  vous,"  she  said,  nodding  and  smiling 
in  my  direction,  and  evidently  it  was,  for  the  bat, 
with  folded  wings,  stood  by  my  side. 

It  was  while  I  was  paying  him  in  ten-drachma 
notes  that  an  acquaintance  squeezed  his  way 
past  our  table,  stooped  and  murmured  in  my  ear: 

65 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Do  you  know  how  much  she  gets  for  each 
bottle  you  pay  for?  " 

"  Haven't  the  remotest,"  said  I,  "  about  how 
much?" 

"  Just  a  matter  of  ten  drachmas.  I  hope 
she'll  prove  worth  it.  But  that,  I  suppose, 
remains  to  be  seen." 

He  went,  and,  turning  round  to  the  table,  I 
saw  much  to  my  astonishment  that  there  were 
now  four  clean  glasses  on  the  tray  the  waiter  had 
brought.  Zuleika  was  filling  them  all  to  the 
brim. 

"  Maestro !  Maestro !  "  she  called,  without 
turning  her  head.  From  the  table  behind  came 
the  man  with  the  googly  eyes.  He  smiled 
familiarly  yet  guardedly  at  us  as  he  took  the 
glass  of  champagne  which  Zuleika  handed  him. 
He  would  have  spoken  to  us  if  he  had  not  seen 
the  hostility  in  Twelves'  and  my  eyes;  but, 
without  the  slightest  indication  of  embarrass- 
ment, our  uninvited  guest  tossed  the  contents  of 
the  glass  into  his  mouth,  let  them  dwell  there  a 
moment,  and  then  swallowed  them  with  an 
audible  gulp. 

"  He  is  my  brother,"  explained  Zuleika, 
enthusiastically. 

"  That  may  be  so,"  said  Twelves,  "  never- 
theless, he  is  an  extremely  disagreeable  per- 
son." 

And  his  long  hand  darted  out  like  a  hawk  and 
again  plunged  into  the  flesh  of  her  arm.  He 
looked  at  her  meaningly;  indeed,  his  gaze  was 
like  a  shout  saying,  "  I  want  you !  I  want  you ! 
66 


WHEN  THE  GREEN  ROSES  CAME 

I  want  you ! "  She  turned  away  from  him 
impatiently. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  she  said,  "  but  you  must 
wait  a  little.  When  the  green  roses  come. 
These  are  white,  but  round  the  fifth  bottle  there 
will  be  green."  And  she  spread  her  hands  over 
the  white  roses  surrounding  the  champagne 
bottle. 

"  Oh,  damn  the  green  roses ! "  growled 
Twelves.  "  Here,  waiter,  another  bottle, 
quick!" 

She  glanced  at  him  from  the  tail  of  her  eye, 
and  then  immediately  became  absorbed  in  the 
performance  of  a  tall  angular  girl  who,  with 
exquisite  art,  was  singing  a  rapid  French  song 
full  of  diablerie.  She  had  no  looks,  no  voice,  and 
no  figure;  but  she  had  personality,  genius. 
Silence  had  fallen  upon  the  drinkers,  and  every 
one  listened  and  watched;  only  the  waiters, 
more  than  ever  like  bats,  moved  swiftly  about, 
bearing  absinthe  and  vermouth  on  purple  trays. 
The  singer  exhaled  a  charm  that  diffused  itself 
about  the  room;  suddenly,  she  ceased  singing, 
made  a  faint  gesture,  threw  a  kiss  to  the  audience, 
and  vanished.  Immediately  there  was  a  great 
shouting  and  a  stamping  of  feet. 

"  It  is  always  like  that,"  complained  Zuleika, 
pouting.  'The  men  love  her.  Why?  She  is 
ugly  and  she  is  all  bones  and  skin:  Ugh!  It 
makes  me  sick  to  see  so  ugly  a  woman  driving 
the  men  mad." 

But  the  third  bottle  of  champagne  caught  her 
eye,  and  she  burst  into  a  laugh. 

6? 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  See,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  roses,  now 
pink,  that  surrounded  the  bottle,  "  see  my 
passion  is  —  what  do  you  call  it  ?  —  rising  —  yes, 
rising!  " 

In  proof  thereof,  she  threw  her  arm  lightly 
round  Twelves'  neck  and  kissed  him  behind  the 
ear.  He  paled  with  desire.  As  for  me,  I  turned 
a  little  to  one  side  and  made  a  pretence  of 
studying  the  audience.  The  next  thing  I  was 
aware  of,  they  were  both  leaning  over  the  table, 
their  heads  together,  whispering.  She  was  smil- 
ing, cunning  and  triumphant,  whilst  his  face 
wore  an  expression  of  irritation  and  baffled  desire. 

"  Come  on,  waiter,  damn  you !  "  he  called, 
"another  bottle  and  another.  Yes  —  twol 
Blood-roses  round  the  first,  and  round  the  second 
green.  And  that,"  he  added,  "  makes  five." 

'  Yes,  five.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,"  she 
counted  on  her  fingers.  "  It  is  enough." 

And  in  due  course  the  two  fresh  bottles 
appeared.  The  bucket  containing  the  blood-red 
roses  was  placed  in  front  of  Zuleika :  that 
containing  the  green  before  Twelves.  When  the 
waiter  had  opened  both  bottles,  Zuleika  ordered 
him  to  take  one  to  the  neighbouring  table  for 
"  the  Maestro." 

"  You  seem  to  be  very  fond  of  your  brother," 
observed  Twelves,  "  but  it  is  strange  he  should  be 
willing  to  drink  a  whole  bottle  of  wine  paid  for 
by  a  complete  stranger." 

She  looked  at  him  darkly. 

'  You   wish   to   quarrel   with  me,"    she   said, 
"  very  well  then,  I  am  quite  content." 
68 


WHEN  THE  GREEN  ROSES  CAME 

"So  that's  your  game,  is  it?"  exclaimed 
Twelves,  with  unexpected  ferocity.  '  You  drink 
champagne  with  me  for  a  couple  of  hours  and 
then  think  you  can  do  what  you  like.  The  green 
roses  have  come  and  you  must  pay  for  them." 

He  pulled  out  his  pocket-book  in  order  to  pay 
for  the  wine,  but  before  he  had  handed  the 
waiter  the  money,  she  held  out  her  hand,  palm 
upwards,  and  placed  it  on  the  table. 

"  One  hundred  and  twenty-five  drachmae  for 
me,"  she  whispered;  and,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  he  handed  her  five  25-drachma2 
notes. 

Then  an  amazing  thing  happened.  Quite 
openly,  she  swung  round  in  her  chair  and  handed 
the  five  notes  to  the  man  she  called  "  the 
Maestro."  He  took  them  and  placed  them  care- 
fully in  his  pocket;  but,  as  he  did  so,  he  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Twelves.  Twelves  returned  his 
gaze  steadily.  In  the  eyes  of  the  stranger  I  saw  a 
look  of  amusement  and  half-veiled  contempt. 
And  certainly  Twelves  was  appearing  in  a  con- 
temptible light.  Even  physically  he  was  con- 
temptible, for  he  looked  very  diminutive  by 
Zuleika's  side,  and  it  was  only  his  firm  jaws  and 
clear  eyes  that  redeemed  him  from  futility. 

"  Before  we  go  we  will  drink  this  last  bottle," 
she  said. 

They  sat  side  by  side  without  a  word,  drinking 
their  champagne.  As  I  was,  so  to  speak,  out  of 
it,  I  turned  my  head  and  gazed  at  the  scene  of 
mad  revelry  that  met  my  eyes,  wondering  and 
trying  to  discover  precisely  .what  it  was  that 

69 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

made  the  frantic  abandonment  of  the  night 
different  from  similar  evenings  I  had  spent  in 
Paris,  Marseilles,  Cairo,  and  Athens.  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  difference  was  chiefly 
in  the  women.  They  had  no  tenderness,  no 
passion,  no  sense  of  adventure,  no  enjoyment. 
They  were  simply  rapacious.  They  did  not 
walk:  they  prowled.  They  did  not  sit:  they 
couched.  .  .  . 

During  the  last  half-hour  the  chairs  and  tables 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  had  been  removed  and 
a  few  couples  had  started  a  bizarre  form  of 
tango.  A  woman  with  bared  breasts  and  arms, 
a  broad  crimson  sash  wound  three  times  round 
her  body  her  only  clothing,  focused  the  on- 
lookers' attention.  She  was  tall  and  graceful, 
and  her  body  imitated  the  movements  of  a 
snake.  It  was  horrible,  but  it  was  fascinating, 
and  the  beast  that  is  in  most  of  us  leapt  to  the 
faces  of  the  men  who  looked  on  and  made  them 
seem  inhuman.  Here  was  another  huntress,  but 
I  felt  that  her  potential  victims  were  as  rapa- 
cious as  she,  and  that  soon  she  would  be  their 
prey. 

From  the  tail  of  my  eye  I  saw  Twelves  and 
Zuleika  rise  and  move  from  our  table.  It  was  as 
I  had  guessed.  She  would  not  repulse  him  here, 
but  in  the  spacious  hall  outside,  for  even  in  the 
White  Tower  "  scenes  "  are  not  tolerated. 

I  followed  at  a  discreet  distance,  feeling  a 
sudden  nausea  at  the  vice  around  me  and  longing 
for  the  northern  mountains  of  Greece  where  I 
had  spent  the  winter.  There  was  a  sickly  smell 
70 


of  heliotrope,  and  the  air  was  misty  with  tobacco 
smoke. 

When  they  had  reached  the  hall,  Twelves  and 
Zuleika  stopped  in  earnest  conversation,  but  I 
moved  on  to  the  cloakroom  to  get  our  hats  and 
sticks.  This  occupied  me  for  only  a  minute,  but 
when  I  had  returned  I  found  my  companions  in 
the  midst  of  a  furious,  though  subdued,  quarrel. 

Twelves  hardly  spoke,  but  when  he  did  so,  he 
jerked  out  a  sentence  in  a  whisper  so  passionate 
that  it  sounded  more  urgent  than  a  scream. 
Fragments  of  the  conversation  reached  me. 

"  But  it's  impossible,"  exclaimed  Zuleika, 
"  tomorrow.  Not  now.  .  .  .  My  husband  is 
here.  Yes,  yes,  yes !  I  have  told  you  already. 
The  Maestro  is  my  husband.  He  would  kill 
me.  .  .  .  How  dare  you !  But  you  Englishmen 
are  all  pigs.  I  go  back  to  the  room.  And 
you  .  .  .  you  clear  out !  " 

She  stretched  out  her  arm  with  a  superb 
gesture  and  pointed  to  the  door.  But  Twelves 
stood  resolute. 

"You  red  fiend!"  he  whispered,  "but  I  will 
have  you  yet." 

Two  waiters  had  stopped  to  watch.  One  of 
them,  a  lascivious  Greek,  broke  into  a  giggle. 

"  You  are  coming  with  me  and  you  are  coming 
now,"  said  Twelves,  "  if  you  don't,  I  shall  have  no 
mercy  on  you." 

Then  she  laughed  and  threw  her  beaded  satchel 
over  Twelves'  head  to  one  of  the  waiter's  behind 
her.  He  caught  it,  and  she  folded  her  arms. 

"  I  could  laugh  at  you,"  she  said,  "  but  if  I 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

once  began  I  should  never  stop.  What  is  it  you 
say  in  England  — '  No  fool  like  an  old  fool,' 
isn't  it?  And  a  fool  always  threatens  what  he 
can't  do.  You  will  have  no  mercy  on  me! 
Boo!" 

And,  swift  as  lightning,  she  thrust  out  her 
arms  and  caught  him  by  the  shoulders.  For  a 
few  seconds  her  massive  frame  towered  above 
him  and  she  shook  him  violently.  The  waiter 
renewed  his  high  falsetto  giggling.  Then,  plac- 
ing one  foot  behind  her,  she  lunged  her  body 
forward,  and  her  muscular  arms  shot  out  like  two 
piston-rods.  Twelves  fell  backwards,  his  head 
striking  a  heavy  chair  four  paces  behind  him. 
As  he  did  not  move,  I  rushed  forward  to  his  help, 
but,  as  I  rushed,  the  waiters  ran  also,  and  we 
arrived  at  Twelves'  prone  body  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. 

Twelves,  though  badly  injured,  was  perfectly 
conscious. 

"  Take  me  out,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  bloody  sick." 

And  that  is  all  that  happened. 

At  the  beginning  of  this  story  I  called  it  a 
tragedy,  but  perhaps  you  think  that  "  comedy  " 
describes  it  better.  Well,  on  the  whole,  so  do  I. 

I  only  hope  Twelves  does  too. 


72 


PAUL   OF   TARSUS 


To 

Julius  Harrison 


PAUL  had  finished  his  day's  work  at  the 
quay-side  of  Thessalonica  unloading  a 
cargo  of  timber,  and  now  sat  watching 
two  young  men,  followers  of  Christ  and  dear 
friends  of  his  own,  who,  naked  to  the  waist, 
were  washing  the  day's  sweat  and  dirt  from 
their  arms  and  faces.  They  were  Greeks  — 
handsome,  athletic,  and  full  of  gaiety. 

"  Art  thou  tired,  Master?  "  asked  the  younger 
of  the  two,  walking  up  to  the  great  traveller  and 
preacher  and  offering  him  a  wet  cloth  for  his  face. 

"  What  —  with  this  kind  of  work  ?  "  said  Paul, 
smiling.  "  Thou  thinkest  I  am  old  and  weak,  I 
know,"  he  added,  taking  the  cloth  from  his 
young  friend  and  pressing  it  gratefully  against 
his  bared  throat. 

"  No,  dear  Father,  I  don't.  ...  I  will  sit  by 
thy  side  until  Aristarchus  has  finished  cleansing 
himself.  .  .  .  Father,  I  want  to  ask  thee  some- 
thing." 

"Well,  my  son:  ask." 

But  the  young  man  stared  across  the  sea  to 
Olympus  and  would  not  speak.  Paul,  divining 
the  mood  that  was  upon  him,  touched  his  arm 
gently. 

"vAsk  me  any  time,  my  son."  Then  he  added 
eagerly  and  with  some  passion :  "  Hast  thou 
told  Aristarchus  thou  wishest  to  marry?" 

"Marry?" 

The  young  man  laughed  nervously  and  self- 
consciously. 

"  Father,  I  might  have  known  thou  wouldst 
guess,"  he  said.  "  No,  I  have  not  told  Aris- 

75 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

tarchus.     I    have    told   no   one :   not   even   her." 

"  And  it  is  about  her  thou  wishest  to  speak 
with  me?" 

"  Yes,  Father,  it  is,"  answered  Lycastus. 

But  again  he  sat  silent,  not  being  able  to 
speak  one  single  word;  and  presently  Aristarchus 
came  over  to  them,  his  bronzed  face  wet,  his 
neck  and  arms  bare. 

'  Jason  will  be  expecting  thee,"  he  said  to 
Paul. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Paul.  "  And  thou,  Aristar- 
chus? Whither  art  thou  going?  " 

"  I  am  going  home  to  my  wife  and  little  son 
to  talk  of  Jesus  Christ.  But  I  will  walk  some 
way  with  thee,  Master,"  he  said.  "  Come,  Jason 
will  have  his  food  spread  for  thee,  and,  I  doubt 
not,  some  wine  for  thy  tired  body." 

"  Aristarchus,  thou  knowest  I  am  not  tired," 
said  Paul,  reproachfully,  "  it  is  only  here  that  I 
am  weary,"  he  added,  placing  his  hand  against 
his  heart.  "  Come,  Lycastus  and  Aristarchus, 
we  will  walk  together." 

But  though  Paul  had  protested  that  he  was 
not  weary,  he  walked  half  a  pace  behind  the 
young  men  and  placed  a  heavy  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  Aristarchus.  They  walked  in  a 
westerly  direction,  towards  the  marshy  mouth  of 
the  great  river,  and  when  they  were  clear  of  the 
city  walls,  they  slackened  their  pace.  Already 
the  air  was  cooler,  for  the  evening  was  coming 
and  the  sun  was  now  sliced  across  by  the  horizon. 
Olympus,  in  a  delicate  mist,  burned  milkily  like 
an  opal. 
76 


"  Aristarchus,"  said  Paul  a  little  absently, 
"  Lycastus  has  something  to  tell  thee." 

But  Lycastus,  hanging  his  head,  did  not  speak. 

"Lycastus,  what  is  it?"  asked  Aristarchus. 
"  But  I  see  how  it  is  with  thee.  Thou  art  shy. 
Thou  art  in  love  and  thou  wishest  to  marry." 

He  laughed  a  little. 

Lycastus  placed  his  arm  for  a  moment  on  the 
arm  of  his  friend. 

'  Thou  knowest  also?     Who  told  thee?  " 

"Thyself.  Has  he  not  told  us,  Master? 
Thou  hast  been  very  happy  these  last  weeks, 
Lycastus,  and  sometimes  thou  hast  been  sunk 
deeply  in  moods  of  the  sweetest  misery.  And 
sometimes  the  blood  has  come  quickly  to  thy 
cheeks  for  no  reason  that  I  could  see,  and  has 
gone  as  quickly  as  it  came.  It  is  only  a  maid 
who  does  that  to  a  man.  What  is  her  name?  " 

"  Her  name  is  Drusilla." 

"And  she  loves  thee?"  asked  Aristarchus, 
encouragingly. 

"  I  think  she  does.  I  have  prayed  that  she 
may." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  little  while, 
Paul's  eyes  bent  on  the  ground. 

'What  dost  thou  say  of  it,  dear  Father?" 
asked  Lycastus,  timidly. 

"  If  thou  hast  been  praying  to  Jesus  Christ 
and  He  has  helped  thee,  what  can  I  say?  Those 
who  must  marry  must  marry.  But  I  shall  lose 
thee  as  I  have  lost  Aristarchus." 

"Oh,  Master:  thou  knowest  well  thou  hast 
not  lost  me !  "  exclaimed  Aristarchus,  reproach- 

77 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

fully.  '4  We  love  and  serve  the  same  God.  It 
was  you,  Master,  who  gave  Jesus  to  me  and  I 
still  have  Jesus." 

"  Nevertheless,  thou  hast  gone  from  me.  I 
feel  thou  hast.  Thy  wife  has  —  stolen  thee." 

Aristarchus,  angry  and  resentful,  moved  a 
little  away  from  Paul  so  that  Paul's  hand  slipped 
from  his  shoulder  and  his  arm  fell  dead  and  limp. 

44  It  is  not  true,  Master,"  he  said. 

44  No,  dear  Father,  it  is  not  true,"  urged 
Lycastus. 

44  Only  I,"  said  Paul,  44  can  know  who  are  those 
who  dwell  in  my  heart,  and  thou,  Aristarchus, 
are  not  one  of  them.  .  .  .  But  here  I  leave  thee. 
This  road  on  our  left  is  mine  and,  as  thou  hast 
reminded  me,  Jason  will  be  waiting  for  me." 

The  three  men  stopped  at  the  cross-roads  in 
the  dusk.  It  was  the  short  time  of  half-light. 
The  sky  in  the  east  was  the  green  of  apples,  and 
in  the  west  it  was  like  the  red  of  the  pome- 
granate's fruit.  All  three  men  were  disturbed 
and  sad.  Aristarchus,  so  loyal  and  patient,  felt 
his  anger  melt  suddenly:  the  something  hard  in 
his  bosom  softened  and  went. 

44  Come,  Master,"  he  said,  "  come  to  my  home. 
Come  and  speak  with  my  wife.  Thou  dost  not 
know  her  because  thou  wilt  not." 

44  But,  Jason  will  be  .  .  ."  began  Paul,  the 
words  dying  on  his  lips. 

"  Go  with  him,  dear  Father,"  urged  Lycastus, 
44 1  will  come  with  thee." 

So  Paul  turned  without  a  word  and  went  with 
his  young  friends,  but  the  dark  look  on  his  face 
78 


PAUL    OF    TARSUS 

matched  the  dark  shadow  that,  from  the  northern 
mountains,  was  swallowing  up  this  land. 

It  was  but  a  short  way  to  the  house  of 
Aristarchus,  and  as  they  entered  the  little  stone 
dwelling  they  found  a  woman  awaiting  them. 
Aristarchus  saluted  his  wife  with  a  kiss,  placing 
his  hands  one  on  each  shoulder. 

"  Master,  this  is  my  wife,  and  here,  Philyra,  is 
Paul  of  Tarsus  of  whom  thou  hast  heard  me  tell 
so  many  times." 

"  Welcome,  Master,"  she  said,  and  she  pressed 
herself  against  the  doorway  to  let  him  pass. 

Inside  there  was  but  little  light.  The  son  of 
Aristarchus  and  Philyra  was  asleep  in  a  wooden 
cradle  on  the  floor  near  the  centre  of  the  room. 
On  a  table  near  by  were  wine  and  food. 

"Thou  wilt  sit  and  drink,  Master?"  asked 
Philyra. 

But  Paul  waved  her  aside  and  remained 
standing. 

The  child  woke  and,  seeing  his  father,  said 
some  little  words.  He  was  fair,  like  his  tender, 
beautiful  mother.  As  Aristarchus  moved  for- 
ward to  greet  his  son,  Lycastus  pulled  his 
garment,  but  Aristarchus,  paying  no  heed,  walked 
to  the  crude  cradle  he  had  made,  and  bent  over 
his  babe.  He  gave  the  child  his  finger  to  play 
with,  and  lingered  by  him  a  moment  or  two. 

"  Didst  thou  finish  thy  work? "  inquired 
Philyra,  abashed  yet  very  eager. 

'  Yes.  It  was  very  hot.  Our  Master  has 
come  to  talk  with  us,  Philyra.  Thou  wilt  sit, 
Master?" 

79 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  No,"  answered  Paul,  "  I  came  for  but  a 
minute.  Jason  awaits  me.  And  I  would  be 
alone.  Farewell!  " 

"Stay,  Master,  stay!"  cried  Philyra.  "I 
have  heard  thee  talk  of  Christ  —  many  times  I 
have  heard  thee  in  the  market." 

She  shrank  a  little  after  she  had  spoken,  afraid 
that  she  had  said  what  should  have  been  left  to 
others. 

Paul  looked  at  her  kindly,  but  with  no  trust 
in  his  eyes. 

"Thy  son  has  been  baptized?"  he  asked. 

".Oh,  yes.     Indeed,  yes,"  she  answered. 

"  And  thou  and  Aristarchus  are  already  fol- 
lowers of  Christ!  Why,  then,  should  I  linger? 
So  many  are  unsaved." 

"  I  think,"  said  Lycastus,  "  some  men  and 
some  women  want  support  in  their  faith.  When 
the  light  is  withdrawn,  there  is  darkness." 

"  Put  not  thy  faith  in  man,  Lycastus,"  said 
Paul,  sternly.  "  Light  proceeds  from  God,  and 
God  never  withdraws  Himself." 

"  Then  if  thou  art  not  the  light,"  said  Philyra 
in  a  whisper,  "  thou  art  the  lamp  that  shields  the 
light,  that  keeps  it  burning  —  for  us." 

But  Paul's  dark  face  remained  dark,  and  when 
the  child  in  the  cradle  began  again  to  speak 
little  words,  the  great  teacher  turned  to  go.  He 
withdrew  very  silently,  saying  only,  "  Farewell !  " 
as  he  reached  the  door.  As  he  disappeared, 
Lycastus  asked  Aristarchus  a  question  with  his 
eyebrows,  and,  in  reply,  Aristarchus  gravely 
lowered  his  head. 
80 


PAUL    OF    TARSUS 

So  Lycastus  followed  Paul  into  the  night 
which  by  now  had  come.  He  could  see  his 
Master  outlined  against  the  thick  stars.  Paul 
was  walking  slowly;  his  heavy  frame  was  bent, 
and  his  robe  trailed  in  the  dust.  Lycastus,  fear- 
ing to  incur  his  anger,  walked  some  paces  behind 
his  Master,  and  his  sandalled  feet  stepped  warily. 

He  loved  Paul  dearly,  and  to-night  his  heart 
ached  for  him  and  his  conscience  smote  him. 
But  so  full  of  tenderness  is  the  heart  of  man,  and 
so  sweetly  selfish  is  man's  love  for  woman,  that 
in  a  very  short  time  he  had  forgotten  his  Master 
and,  in  imagination,  Drusilla  walked  by  his  side, 
her  slender  fingers  in  his,  her  head  on  his  heart. 
For  Lycastus  was  never  alone.  As  soon  as  he 
was  withdrawn  from  others,  Drusilla  was  with 
him.  To-night  the  stars  were  in  her  hair,  and 
the  little  breeze  was  her  breath.  And  he  fell  to 
thinking  of  the  house  they  would  share  and  of 
the  babe  that  would  be  born  to  them,  and  in  his 
heart  of  hearts  he  knew  that  what  Paul  had  said 
was  true.  Paul  had  lost  Aristarchus,  and  Ly- 
castus soon  would  be  lost  to  him  also. 

"  It  must  be  so !  It  is  right  it  should  be 
so !  "  said  Lycastus  to  himself. 

Yet  he  felt  sad  when  he  thought  of  Paul,  and 
he  sought  in  his  mind  for  something  he  could 
say  or  do  to  comfort  him. 

Presently  they  were  at  the  cross-roads.  Paul 
stopped,  turned,  and  saw  his  young  friend 
approaching.  But  he  would  not  return  Lycastus' 
greeting;  instead,  he  stood  firm  and  rigid,  his 
thick  neck  and  noble  head  immovable.  The 

81 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

wild    eyes    had    in    them    light    that    was    not 

borrowed  from  the  stars. 

"  Pass  on !  "  he  said.     "  Trouble  me  not !  " 
So  Lycastus  passed  on  to  his  home  and,  ere  he 

had  unloosened  his  robe,  had  forgotten  Paul  and 

was  already  dreaming  of  Drusilla  and  the  glad 

days  to  come. 


82 


THE    MOON    MAN 


To 

Samuel  Langford 


SOUR  and  always  a  little  miserable,  Vuk 
Karadjitch  worked  all  day  in  the  fields, 
feeling  that  life  had  brought  him  nothing. 
Life  was  as  tasteless  as  water,  as  unmusical  as 
the  chink  of  money  on  a  counter.  He  could  not 
conceive  why  he  had  been  born;  existence  was 
a  casually  organized  series  of  accidents.  Every 
thing  that  happened  was  accidental.  Death  was 
the  only  event  that  the  gods  had  deliberately 
and  elaborately  planned:  one  saw  death  coming 
almost  from  the  very  moment  that  one  was  born. 

Karadjitch  had  the  lithe  body  of  an  aristocrat: 
the  features  also,  and  the  poise  of  head.  His 
neck  had  proud  muscles,  and  his  throat  was 
shapely.  But  though  he  had  the  appearance 
and  carriage  of  one  highly  born,  his  birth  was 
lowly,  and  the  education  he  had  snatched,  almost 
stolen,  from  life  was  not  of  the  kind  to  increase 
his  money-earning  capacity. 

His  mind,  a  little  marred  at  birth,  had  been 
almost  ruined  by  knowledge.  His  brain  fastened 
itself  on  the  past  —  on  mythology  —  the  sweet 
legend  of  Hylas,  and  on  the  golden  story  of 
Helen  of  Troy.  It  is  so  easy  to  make  the  past 
more  real  than  the  present:  it  is  so  pleasant 
to  do  this,  so  fruitful  of  happiness.  So  Vuk 
Karadjitch  lived  in  the  days  that  were  long 
before  his  birth. 

And  as  he  worked  in  the  orchards  that  lie 
above  Kirekoj  —  working  at  night  to  keep  robbers 
away  —  he  stared  continually  at  the  moon,  the 
moon  that  was  to  him  the  oldest  and  most  tired 

85 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

thing  in  all  God's  universe.  Ever  since  he  had 
been  a  boy  this  wayward  planet  had  excited 
him,  and  the  coming  of  manhood  had  not  lessened 
the  strange  sympathy,  even  longing,  that  he  felt 
for  the  great  globe  of  light  wandering  with  such 
self-conscious  pride  among  the  stars.  .  .  . 

His  mother,  a  harassed,  reserved  woman,  used 
years  ago  to  put  little  Vuk  to  bed  with  fear 
whenever  the  moon  shone  through  the  high, 
shutterless  window.  She  would  cover  his  head 
so  that  he  should  not  see  the  blue  light  on  the 
wall. 

"  Go  to  sleep,  child,"  she  would  whisper  as 
she  bent  over  him;  "  do  not  walk  to-night." 

But  almost  of  a  certainty  he  would  rise  in 
his  sleep  and  walk  to  the  room  in  which  his 
mother  sat,  his  eyes  open  and  luminous,  his  little 
hands  stretched  palm  upwards  in  front  of  him. 
Then  she  would  tremblingly  put  down  her  work, 
go  to  him,  and  just  touching  him  with  the  tips 
of  her  fingers,  guide  him  back  to  bed. 

If,  as  often  happened,  the  boy's  father  was  in 
the  house  when  Vuk  walked,  the  gnarled  old 
man  would  roughly  seize  him  and  shake  him 
into  terrified  wakefulness. 

"  It's  a  beating  the  lad  wants,"  the  father 
would  say;  and,  indeed,  one  night  he  raised 
his  hand  and  his  son  staggered  and  shrieked 
under  the  blow  he  received. 

Vuk's  father  had  reason,  though  he  knew  it 
not,  to  dislike  the  boy.  Karadjitch  was  a  cuck- 
old, but  so  little  suspicion  had  he  of  this,  that 
he  smiled  with  secret  pleasure  when  neighbours 
86 


THE     MOON     MAN 

remarked  how  like  to  him  was  his  wife's  hand- 
some boy. 

One  evening  the  mother  arranged  a  curtain 
over  the  bedroom  window  so  that  the  moon 
could  not  get  at  her  son.  But  even  on  that 
night  Vuk  walked.  And,  a  few  evenings  later, 
softly  entering  his  room,  his  mother  saw  him 
standing  on  the  back  of  a  high  chair  at  the 
window,  his  body  precariously  balanced,  his 
dilated  eyes  fixed  most  questioningly  on  the 
molten  moon.  .  .  . 

She  spoke  nothing  to  her  neighbours  of  all 
these  things  which,  I  must  tell  you,  happened 
fifteen  years  ago  in  that  most  lovely  of  towns  — 
Doiran  so  white  and  perfect  standing  by  the 
blue,  deep  lake  whose  name  is  also  Doiran. 


Kirekoj  has  no  lake  like  Doiran,  yet  Vuk, 
now  a  young  man  of  twenty-three,  loved  this 
place  cupped  so  gently  in  the  mountains.  He 
had  only  to  walk  up  through  the  vineyards  and 
orchards  and  drag  himself  to  the  top  of  the  ridge 
to  see  Langaza  which,  though  not  so  beautiful 
as  Doiran,  is  perhaps  more  mysterious. 

Just  as,  when  a  boy,  he  had  been  employed 
to  scare  away  birds  from  the  crops,  so  was  he 
now  paid  to  guard  the  fruit-burdened  orchards 
from  robbers.  .  .  . 

One  night  in  August  his  depression  was  so 
great  that,  as  he  sat  with  his  back  against  a 
young  pomegranate  tree,  he  allowed  his  mind 
to  become  numb  with  wretchedness.  There  was 

8? 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

no  moon  this  night,  and  he  had  come  to  depend 
so  much  upon  this  far-off  friend  of  his  that  a 
great  loneliness  oppressed  him.  A  dog,  snuffing 
in  the  undergrowth,  came  to  him  and  put  his 
nose  in  Vuk's  open  hand.  The  young  man  made 
no  response,  but  the  dog  licked  and  liked  him 
and  stayed  with  him.  And  every  night  the  af- 
fectionate wild  creature  would  come  and  sit  by 
him.  Never  once  did  Vuk  give  him  a  caress  or 
vouch  him  a  word.  Yet  he  never  wished  the  dog 
to  go  away. 

The  man  and  woman  in  Kirekoj  with  whom 
Vuk  lived  were  kind  to  him,  though  they  thought 
him  strange  and  often  wondered  what  his 
thoughts  were.  When  Vuk  set  out  in  the  even- 
ing to  his  work,  the  woman  would  give  him  a 
little  parcel  of  food  —  bread,  a  handful  of  olives, 
and  a  bottle  of  red  wine,  and  Vuk  would  smile 
at  her  shyly  and  say  some  words  of  thanks. 
The  young  men  of  the  village  —  mostly  Bulgars 
—  had  long  ago  accepted  him;  at  first,  they  had 
teased  him  a  little,  but  as  he  always  replied  with 
a  smile  of  good-nature,  they  had  soon  come  to 
see  that  his  oddness  was  not  a  thing  to  give  them 
amusement. 

Sometimes  Vuk  would  try  to  throw  himself 
into  their  company,  forcing  himself  to  be  one 
of  them.  He  was  afraid  of  his  own  strangeness. 
But  his  abnormal  shyness  barred  his  way,  and 
the  sensitive  distaste  he  had  for  life  was  too  strong 
to  be  overcome.  He  envied  his  fellows.  He 
envied  their  capacity  for  comradeship,  their  day- 
long happiness,  the  ease  with  which  they  laughed 
88 


THE     MOON     MAN 

and  talked.  But  he  could  never  become  like 
them.  His  self-distrust  increased  with  the  years, 
and  he  turned  more  passionately  than  ever  to 
his  dreams  of  the  past  and  to  his  silent  companion 
in  the  sky. 

One  afternoon,  the  man  with  whom  he  lived 
came  in  from  his  work  in  the  fields  and  found 
Vuk  reading  a  book. 

"Will  you  drink  wine  with  me?"  the  man 
asked. 

'  Thank  you :  I  will,"  answered  Vuk,  shrink- 
ing a  little. 

The  man  poured  out  two  glasses,  and,  as  the 
day  was  very  hot,  Vuk  drained  his  at  a  •  single 
draught.  The  man  silently  refilled  it,  and  in 
five  minutes  the  glass  was  again  empty. 

His  host,  looking  at  him,  smiled. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  inn  and  drink 
with  Stepan  and  the  other  lads?"  he  asked. 
"  To  get  drunk  sometimes  is  good  for  a  man." 

Vuk,  returning  his  gaze,  smiled  also. 

"  I  will  drink  with  you,  if  you  like,"  he  re- 
turned, for  the  wine  had  excited  him,  and  he 
did  not  feel  as  much  afraid  as  usual. 

So  his  host  brought  another  bottle  and  yet 
another  and,  after  some  time,  Vuk  began  to 
talk. 

"Am  I  in  your  way  living  here?"  he  asked, 
his  eyes  looking  wounded  and  beseeching. 

"  No.  I  like  you  to  be  here.  My  wife  likes 
you  to  be  here.  We  are  all  happy  together  — 
eh?" 

"  I  am  happy  with  you,"  said  Vuk.     "  I  often 

89 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

want  to  say  things  to  you,  but  I  can't.  I  am 
not  stupid.  I  understand  things,  but  —  some- 
how   "  His  voice  trailed  off  to  a  murmur. 

Then,  clenching  his  fists  and  tightening  all  his 
body,  he  said  with  an  effort:  "I  understand 
things,  but  I  cannot  speak  about  them.  It 
seems  as  though  you  are  all  so  far  off  that  you 
wouldn't  grasp  what  I  said.  And  I  am  always 
afraid  that  I  might  say  something  that  would  be 
strange  to  you." 

His   host  laughed   tolerantly. 

"We  are  all  strange,  eh?  And  what  would 
it  matter  if  we  didn't  understand  you?  You 
must  talk:  it  is  good  for  every  man  to  talk. 
Perhaps  you  are  wise,  and  no  one  understands 
wise  men." 

This  comforted  Vuk  a  little. 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  he  said;  "  I  do  not  know." 
He  paused  for  a  moment.  "  Have  you  —  have 
you  ever  noticed  at  night  how,  though  it  may 
be  very  silent,  it  is  still  more  silent  when  the 
moon  appears?  " 

His  companion  considered  a  moment. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  have,"  he  answered, 
shifting  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

Vuk  took  another  mouthful  of  wine. 
'  Well,  you  listen  one  night  and  you'll  hear. 
Especially  when  the  moon  is  just  rising  —  red  and 
swollen  on  the  horizon.  Of  course,  she  is  angry 
then,  and  at  those  times  I  always  think  she  is 
like  some  raging,  drunken  queen  rising  from  her 
couch  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

His  companion  stared  at  Vuk  for  a  moment 
90 


THE     MOON     MAN 

and  then  laughed.  But  by  now  Vuk  was  too 
exalted  and  excited  to  notice  that  his  host  was 
uncomfortable  and  perhaps  a  little  contemptuous, 
and,  putting  his  arms  on  the  table  and  leaning 
forward,  he  began  to  talk  volubly. 

"  I  wish  I  had  money  to  buy  jewels,"  he  said, 
"  especially  certain  jewels  like  opals.  I  would 
like  to  hold  many  opals  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand: 
I  would  like  to  crush  them  together  between 
my  hands.  You  know  that  all  fire  is  the  sun. 
Did  you  know  that?  Yes.  I'm  telling  you. 
Take  coal.  Coal  is  buried  wood.  And  what  is 
wood?  Wood  is  trees.  And  it  is  the  sun  that 
makes  trees  grow.  It  pulls  at  the  ground  and 
draws  them  out;  it  warms  them  and  feeds  them. 
When  you  burn  wood  and  coal,  it  is  the  sun  that 
leaps  out  at  you  —  a  little  bit  of  the  sun  that  has 
been  silently  hiding  for  many  years.  A  good 
deal  of  the  sun  is  stored  under  the  ground  and 
a  good  deal  of  it  is  alive  and  burning  there. 
Well,  it  is  the  same  with  the  moon.  Some 
precious  stones  absorb  the  moon.  Opals  do. 
That  is  why  I  want  to  hold  many  opals  in  my 
hand  and  crush  them  together.  And  I  am  sure 
that  the  moon  gives  herself  to  water,  especially 
to  large  sheets  of  water  like  Lake  Langaza." 
He  paused  a  few  moments,  his  thoughts  far  away. 
'  You  can  feel  the  moon,  soft  and  sliding,  on 
your  limbs,  if  you  bathe  at  night  when  the  moon 
is  high  in  the  sky:  but  when  the  dawn  comes, 
the  light  of  the  sun  destroys  all  the  moon  that 
is  in  the  water." 

He  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that  his  com- 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

panion's  eyes  were  shut  and  that  his  heavy 
breathing  was  developing  into  a  snore. 

"  I  am  explaining  this  to  you !  "  exclaimed 
Vuk,  peremptorily. 

But  his  host  sank  deeper  into  slumber,  and 
for  a  little  while  Vuk  talked  quietly  to  himself 
until  he,  too,  slept. 


That  evening  at  dusk  Vuk,  dazed  with  wine, 
made  his  way  to  the  orchards  above  Kirekoj. 
For  a  long  time  he  sat  brooding  among  the  trees, 
until  the  moon,  full  and  splendid,  went  redly 
up  the  sky.  He  watched  her  so  closely  that 
he  could  see  her  moving.  To-night  she  did  not 
seem  to  glide :  she  moved  with  just  perceptible 
jerks  —  "  Like  the  hands  of  a  very  large  clock," 
said  Vuk  to  himself,  for  he  had  wandered  far 
and  had  lived  in  many  big  cities. 

He  watched  the  trees  appearing  out  of  the 
blackness:  they  seemed  to  be  marching  upon 
him,  closing  in  upon  him.  So  he  arose  and  began 
to  walk,  and  presently  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
orchard  and  looked  up  at  the  mountain  at  whose 
feet  he  stood.  He  began  to  climb,  and  soon, 
after  leaving  the  vineyards  behind  him,  he  came 
upon  large,  bare  rocks  in  the  clefts  of  which 
grass  and  flowers  grew.  It  was  while  he  was 
climbing  both  with  hands  and  feet  that  his  dog- 
friend,  excited  but  silent,  joined  him. 

"Tchut!  tchut!"  said  Vuk,  beneath  his 
breath. 

The  dog,  honoured  by  human  speech,  became 
92 


still  more  excited,  and  Vuk  could  see  him  dimly 
as,  having  rushed  to  the  top  of  a  high  rock,  he 
stood  open-mouthed,  wagging  his  tail. 

Now,  there  was  no  one  either  in  Langaza  or 
Kirekoj  who  was  more  bound  by  conscience  to 
his  work  than  Vuk  Karadjitch,  and  it  was  very 
strange  that  on  this  night  he  should,  without 
effort,  have  left  his  master's  orchards  to  wander 
up  the  mountains.  He  did  not  know  where  he 
was  going  or,  indeed,  why  he  was  "  going  "  at 
all.  But  I  have  no  doubt  that  something  in 
his  brain  —  one  of  the  many  selves  that  were 
Vuk  —  was  urging  him  forward  to  some  secret 
purpose  of  its  own. 

Stillness  and  the  moon's  rays  held  the  night, 
and  though  the  moon  falsified  distance  and  misled 
even  Vuk  who  was  used  to  the  moon's  deceit,  he 
reached  the  top  of  the  mountains  sooner  than  he 
had  expected.  There,  unseen,  Langaza  lay  be- 
neath him.  Looking  in  Langaza's  direction,  he 
suddenly  became  aware  of  his  motive  in  coming 
thither.  Turning  to  the  dog,  he  muttered 
threateningly : 

"Go  away  I     Go  away!" 

But  though  he  threw  stones  at  the  animal, 
it  refused  to  leave  him.  So,  muttering  to  him- 
self, Vuk  proceeded  down  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain,  making  his  way  to  Langaza  with 
impatient  strides. 

Langaza  is  a  lake  without  banks,  and  even  a 
careful  investigator  will  find  it  difficult  to  de- 
termine where  dry  land  ends  and  water  begins. 
Rushes  and  grasses,  tropically  luxuriant,  grow 

93 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

from  dry  earth,  mud,  and  the  lake's  bed.  In 
hot  weather  the  air  is  miasmatic,  and  millions 
of  mosquitoes  make  with  their  wings  high  shrieks 
as  they  fly  their  way  through  the  air. 

When  Vuk  found  himself  on  the  edge  of  this 
poisoned  richness,  he  was  covered  with  sweat, 
and  the  fumes  of  the  afternoon's  wine  had  left 
his  brain.  For  a  little  time  he  stood  looking  at 
the  moon  —  not  at  the  moon  in  the  sky,  for  that 
was  too  far  away,  and  its  very  distance  mocked 
him;  but  at  the  moon  in  the  lake  that  was  so 
near.  Man  cannot  without  wings  soar  into  the 
sky,  but  his  own  weight  will  carry  him  to  the 
bottom  of  the  deepest  abyss. 

He  walked  into  the  rushes  and  grasses  and, 
in  a  moment,  was  surrounded  by  them;  they 
towered  above  his  head,  and  soon  his  feet  began 
to  sink  in  the  slime  and  mud  of  the  lake's  true 
edge.  The  dog,  with  velvet  paws,  followed  a 
pace  behind  him.  Vuk  had  forgotten  him,  for 
Vuk's  mind  was  now  full  of  the  moon  and  in- 
flamed by  it. 

In  a  very  short  time  walking  became  laborious 
and  slow,  for  Vuk's  feet  sank  into  the  mud  until 
it  covered  his  ankles,  and  it  was  with  a  great 
effort  that  he  drew  them  out  again.  The  suck- 
ing, explosive  sound  they  made,  and  the  Moon 
Man's  heavy  breathing  startled  many  large  water- 
birds  that,  with  flopping  wings  and  raucous 
throats,  announced  their  fear  as  they  rushed 
away. 

Guided  by  the  moon,  Vuk  at  length  reached 
the  inner  edge  of  the  rushes.  In  his  journey 

94 


THE     MOON     MAN 

he  had  fallen  many  times,  and  his  clothes,  his 
hands,  and  his  face  were  thick  with  ooze;  the 
spiky  rushes  had  pierced  his  flesh,  and  his  face 
and  neck  were  bleeding.  The  water  now  reached 
his  thighs.  He  stood  still  while  he  undressed. 
His  impatient  hands  feverishly  unwound  the  long 
cloth  that  circled  his  stomach  many  times.  When 
naked,  he  waded  still  further  into  the  lake,  and 
then,  lifting  his  feet  and  pressing  his  chest 
against  the  water,  he  swam  towards  the  moon 
lying  in  the  lake.  The  dog,  devoted  and  dumb, 
and  seemingly  driven  by  the  same  fate,  followed 
him. 

Vuk  could  swim  well,  but  he  was  already 
exhausted  before  he  had  emerged  from  the  forest 
of  rushes  and  grasses.  It  was  a  long,  long  way 
to  the  moon  in  the  lake,  and  in  a  little  time  his 
strokes  became  feeble  and  there  was  only  just 
enough  movement  in  his  arms  to  keep  him  afloat. 
Turning  himself  on  his  back,  he  rested.  All  deep 
desire  had  gone  from  his  mind.  Weary,  he 
wished  for  oblivion.  The  moon  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  lake,  waiting.  He  had  only  just 
to  sink  now  where  he  was,  and  slowly,  very 
slowly,  but  oh!  how  safely  and  inevitably,  he 
would  go  to  her. 

He  began  to  sink  and  to  be  smothered.  .  .  . 
After  a  time  he  reappeared,  feebly  struggling. 
The  dog  snatched  at  and  missed  him.  Vuk  sank 
again.  And  after  that  Vuk's  body,  remaining, 
for  how  long  I  know  not,  midway  between  the 
water's  surface  and  the  lake's  bottom,  was  never 
again  seen. 

95 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

The  dog  swam  in  ever-widening  circles  round 
the  spot  where  the  Moon  Man  had  disappeared 
until  he,  also,  sank,  perhaps  joining  the  only 
friend  he  had  ever  known. 


HOW   HIS    FRIENDS 
DESTROYED    HIM 


To 

Olive  Warnock 


TO  Harry  Bruton  it  seemed  an  eternity 
before  the  little  steamer,  Caucase,  was 
berthed,  the  gangways  placed  in  posi- 
tion, and  the  passengers  allowed  to  disembark  on 
the  quay  at  Le  Piree.  For  nearly  half  an  hour 
he  had  been  standing  on  the  quay-side  shouting 
inanities  to  his  friend  Dick  Cassels  who,  clad 
in  flannels,  a  straw  hat,  and  a  lemon-coloured 
tie,  stood  grinning  on  the  deck  and  failing  to 
catch  a  word  that  was  called  to  him. 

"  Had  a  good  time?  "  shouted  Bruton. 

Cassels,  examining  his  watch  and  craning  his 
neck  forward,  yelled  back: 

"  Just  8.40." 

"  Oh  —  damn !     Can't  you  hear  ?  " 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"Damn!  — that's  all." 

This  sort  of  thing  could  not  go  on  indefinitely, 
and  Bruton,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  began  to 
laugh.  Nevertheless,  he  was  terribly  anxious 
for  Cassels  to  come  on  shore.  Every  minute 
mattered.  God  alone  knew  what  might  be 
happening  at  this  very  second  in  that  big  house 
on  the  outskirts  of  Athens  —  that  house  whose 
garden  even  now,  in  April,  was  one  huge,  thick 
cluster  of  flowers,  crimson,  blue  and  yellow. 

Bruton  had  been  in  Greece  a  couple  of  years. 
Leaving  Oxford  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  he 
had  gone  to  Athens  to  study  and  write.  Cassels 
was  coming  to  him  for  a  few  days  on  his  way  to 
Constantinople.  Friends  of  many  years  stand- 
ing, both  had  for  some  weeks  been  looking  for- 
ward eagerly  to  this  meeting,  and  now,  though 

99 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

they  were  within  a  stone's  throw  of  each  other, 
they  could  not  clasp  hands.  At  last  the  gang- 
ways were  pushed  from  the  boat  to  the  quay, 
and  Cassels  was  one  of  the  first  to  step  on 
shore. 

"  Let's  hurry  through  the  Customs  as  quickly 
as  possible,"  said  Bruton,  "  I've  got  a  car  wait- 
ing on  the  road." 

Five  minutes  later  they  were  in  the  car  rushing 
at  top  speed  in  the  direction  of  Athens,  four 
miles  away. 

"  And  now  that  those  rotten  Levantine  Jews 
have  ceased  pawing  my  baggage  and  me,"  said 
Cassels,  "how  are  you?" 
'Top-hole.     And  you?" 

"  Never  fitter  in  my  life.  Good  lord,  it's  fine 
to  see  you  again,  Harry.  Had  a  ripping  time 
on  board.  There  was  a  French  girl  who 
sang.  .  .  ." 

Bruton  interrupted  him  by  placing  a  sudden 
hand  on  his  friend's  arm. 

"  An  awf'ly  rotten  thing's  happened,  Dick. 
I  must  tell  you  all  about  it  before  we  arrive. 
I've  got  a  friend  here  in  Athens  —  a  man  called 
Gascoyne.  Yesterday  his  girl  jilted  him  and  ran 
off  God  knows  where  with  another  fellow.  She 
played  up  to  him  —  to  Gascoyne,  I  mean  —  to 
the  very  last  moment:  spent  the  evening  with 
him  the  day  before  she  skedaddled.  Well,  Gas- 
coyne's  done  —  absolutely  broken.  All  yesterday 
and  last  night  I  was  with  him,  literally  keeping 
him  from  suicide.  I  am  going  to  him  now: 
I  daren't  leave  him  alone." 
100 


HIS   FRIENDS   DESTROYED   HIM 

"  Good  Lord !  "  exclaimed  Cassels.  "  Rather 
a  weak  sort  of  devil,  isn't  he?  And  why  the 
dickens  should  you  bother  about  him,  anyway? 
This  is  going  to  knock  the  bottom  out  of  our 
holiday." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is.  But,  you  see,  he's  all  alone 
and  I'm  his  closest  friend.  His  mother's  dead, 
his  father's  away,  and  there  he  is  with  just  one 
man-servant,  a  Greek,  living  alone  in  an  enor- 
mous, rambling  house.  I  scarcely  liked  to  leave 
him  even  while  I  came  to  meet  you." 

Cassels  cursed  under  his  breath  and  lit  a 
cigarette. 

"  I'm  beastly  sorry,"  said  Bruton,  "  but  what 
can  I  do?  If  anything  should  happen  to  him 
I  should  blame  myself  for  ever." 

"  Oh,  you're  doing  quite  the  right  thing, 
old  son,"  Cassels  assured  him,  "  but  what  a 
damned  ass  the  man  is!  It  makes  me  sick  the 
way  young  fools  carry  on  about  women." 

"  But  he's  not  a  fool.  As  self-contained  and 
manly  a  chap  as  you  could  wish  to  meet.  Now, 
listen.  What  I  propose  to  do  is  this.  We'll  go 
and  seek  him  now,  have  breakfast  together,  and 
persuade  him  to  come  back  with  us  to  my  place. 
I  can  easily  put  him  up.  Wherever  we  go 
we'll  take  him  with  us.  He  wants  pulling  out 
of  himself,  and  in  a  day  or  two  he'll  probably 
be  all  right.  But  just  at  present  he's  dangerous 
—  dangerous  to  himself,  I  mean,  though  I  may 
tell  you  I've  got  his  revolver  all  right.  But  here 
we  are." 

The  car  slowed  down  and  stopped  in  front 

101 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

of  a  big  white  house  with  green  shutters,  stand- 
ing well  back  from  the  road.  A  great  wooden 
gate  barred  their  way.  In  response  to  their  ring, 
an  oldish  man  came  hurrying  from  the  house. 

"  Everything  all  right?  "  asked  Bruton. 
'  Yes,    sir.     Mister    Cyril's    digging    in    the 
garden." 

And  at  the  back  of  the  house  they  found 
Gascoyne,  a  fair  handsome  fellow  with  blue  eyes 
and  freckles;  he  wore  no  coat,  and  his  open 
white  shirt  revealed  a  magnificent  chest. 

Shaking  hands  with  Dick  Cassels,  he  invited 
them  indoors. 

"  Coffee  and  things  are  waiting  for  you,"  he 
said. 

"  Good!  "  exclaimed  Cassels;  "  for  I'm  dread- 
fully hungry.  On  the  boat  we've  been  break- 
fasting at  10.30.  Such  a  rummy  breakfast! 
Wine  and  rolls  and  hors  d'ceuwes  and  cheese." 

They  stepped  into  the  house  and  entered  a 
large  cool  room  with  whitewashed  walls;  the 
pine-wood  floor  was  bare  except  for  an  occasional 
Persian  rug  whose  smooth  colours  held  and 
gratified  the  eye. 

"  Do  help  yourselves,"  said  Gascoyne.  "  No, 
don't.  Sit  in  these  easy  chairs  and  I'll  wait 
on  you." 

His  fresh  face  was  a  little  haggard  and  his 
eyes  glittered.  He  busied  himself  with  cups, 
plates,  and  food,  and  when  his  friends  had  begun 
eating,  he  eagerly  and  tremblingly  seized  a 
decanter  of  whisky,  filled  a  champagne-glass 
102 


HIS    FRIENDS   DESTROYED   HIM 

to    the    brim,    and    drank    it    off    neat    in    two 
gulps. 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  exclaimed  Cassels,  "  I  didn't 
know  you  had  any  whisky  there.  Do  give  me 
some." 

"  Certainly.     I'll  get  you  some  soda." 

When  Gascoyne  had  left  the  room,  Bruton 
turned  to  his  friend. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  drinking  whisky  for 
at  this  time  of  the  morning?  " 

"  Well,  the  great  thing  is  not  to  let  your  friend 
think  he  is  doing  anything  unusual.  He  knows 
we  are  watching  him  carefully,  and  a  watched 
man  always  poses.  He  is  suffering,  and  perhaps 
he  is  a  little  unhinged  —  all  the  more  reason  why 
we  should  not  only  make  no  comment  on  what 
he  does,  but  should  behave  ourselves  as  nearly 
as  possible  in  the  same  way  that  he  does." 

"  I  wonder,"   said  Bruton. 

Gascoyne  entered  with  three  or  four  bottles  of 
soda-water. 

"  Oh,  really,  you  shouldn't  have  troubled," 
protested  Cassels,  "  for  I'd  much  rather  have  it 
neat.  I'm  sick  of  red  wine,  and  they  hadn't 
even  a  drop  of  whisky  on  board." 

And  he  helped  himself  to  a  glassful. 

"How  shall  we  spend  the  morning,  Cyril?" 
asked  Bruton.  "  Shall  we  drive  to  the  Acropolis 
and  sleep  for  an  hour  in  the  shade  of  the  Par- 
thenon?" 

Gascoyne  looked  at  him  curiously  for  a  moment, 
and  then  laughed. 

103 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  What  a  funny  old  thing  you  are !  "  he  said. 
"No.  Been  to  Athens  before?"  he  asked 
Cassels. 

"No  —  this  is  my  first  visit." 

"  Very  well,  then.  We'll  go  to  the  Acropolis 
to-night.  There's  a  full  moon,  and  one's  first 
sight  of  the  Acropolis  should  always  be  by  moon- 
light. This  morning  we'll  take  the  car  to  Eleusis. 
There  are  Mysteries  there,"  he  added,  darkly, 
"  undiscoverable  Mysteries.  The  Temple  of 
Demeter  is  now  a  confusion  of  broken  stones. 
We  can  bathe  there.  The  sea  is  blue." 

He  drank  more  whisky  and  still  more,  and 
while  his  friends  ate  their  breakfast  he  had  con- 
tinual recourse  to  the  decanter.  But  he  ex- 
hibited none  of  the  more  obvious  signs  of  intoxi- 
cation: his  voice  and  gait  were  steady;  only 
his  eyes  were  wild,  and  his  face  strained. 

After  pacing  the  room  for  a  short  while,  he 
sat  down  in  a  deck-chair  facing  his  friends. 

"Finished?"  he  asked.  "Do  have  some 
more.  Those  oranges  were  plucked  only  this 
morning.  No?  Well,  then,  come  upstairs  with 
me :  I've  got  something  rather  magnificent  I  want 
to  show  you." 

He  rose  and  led  the  way  from  the  room.  The 
house  was  full  of  greenish  light  reflected  from 
the  half-open  shutters.  The  staircase  leading  to 
the  upper  story  was  made  of  white  marble 
flushed  gently  with  pink.  Gascoyne,  opening  a 
door,  said: 

'  This  is  my  bedroom." 

They  entered  and  he  pointed  to  a  plaster  cast 
104 


HIS   FRIENDS    DESTROYED   HIM 

of  a  woman's  head  nailed  upon  the  wall  opposite 
the  window.  Walking  to  the  window,  they  half- 
seated  themselves  upon  the  dressing-table  there 
and  looked  at  the  cast.  Instinctively,  Cassels 
knew  it  was  Gascoyne's  love. 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  said  he  softly. 

The  face  had  the  inscrutable  smile  of  La 
Gioconda;  there  was  mystery  in  the  mouth, 
imagination  in  the  eyes,  and  holiness  dwelt  on 
her  brows. 

"Who  did  it?"  asked  Bruton. 

"  Some  artist  chap,"  answered  Gascoyne;  '*  as 
a  matter  of  fact,"  he  continued,  carelessly,  "  the 
man  she's  run  away  with.  He's  very  clever, 
don't  you  think?" 

He  walked  up  to  it,  as  though  scrutinizing  it 
for  the  first  time;  then,  returning,  he  put  his 
face  close  to  the  face  of  Bruton  and  said: 

"Damned  little  devil,  isn't  she?" 

But  it  was  Cassels  who  answered  him. 

"  She  has  the  most  wonderful  face  I  have  ever 
seen,"  he  said;  "the  kindest  face.  But,  then, 
nearly  all  faces  are  masks.  That,  I  suppose, 
is  what  they're  for  —  to  deceive,  I  mean." 

"  Outside,"  said  Gascoyne,  "  I  have  the  most 
gorgeous  view." 

They  turned  and  looked.  The  windows  were 
wide  open.  Beneath  them  was  a  thick,  un- 
dulating carpet  of  pear-blossom  as  thick  as  a 
heavy  fall  of  snow,  and  as  brilliant  as  snow  in 
the  sun.  The  orchard  was  several  acres  in 
extent.  In  the  distance  were  blue  mountains; 
the  sky  above  them  had  a  faint  tinge  of  purple. 

105 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Good  Lord !  How  wonderful !  "  exclaimed 
Cassels.  "  And  is  this  Greece  or  Paradise?  " 

"  It  was  both  —  till  yesterday,"  said  Gascoyne. 
"  Now  it's  hell.  By  the  way,  Cassels,  are  you 
a  good  shot  with  a  revolver?" 

"  Pretty  fair.  At  least,  I  used  to  be,  but  I've 
had  no  practice  for  years." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  can  shoot  as  well  as  this." 

And  on  the  instant  he  turned  round  and,  at 
arm's  length,  held  out  a  Webley,  pointing  it 
straight  at  the  cast  on  the  opposite  wall.  In 
rapid  succession  he  fired  six  rounds,  smashing 
the  cast  into  a  hundred  pieces.  His  friends, 
standing  one  on  either  side  of  him,  looked  on 
without  a  word  or  movement. 

;<  Rather  good  shooting,"  said  Cassels,  at 
length,  as  though  it  were  the  most  ordinary 
thing  in  the  world  to  pour  lead  into  bedroom 
walls  after  breakfast. 

Bruton,  pale  and  trembling,  exclaimed: 

"  But  I  thought  I'd  taken  your  revolver!  " 

"  Have  you  taken  my  other  revolver?  "  asked 
Gascoyne,  his  face  working  with  anger.  '  What 
the  devil  for?  Where  is  it?  Give  it  me  now. 
Get  it,  I  tell  you!  Who  in  God's  name  are  you 
to  come  here  stealing  the  things  I  may  want  at 
any  minute?  " 

Bruton  put  his  hand  on  Gascoyne's  arm. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Cyril,"  he  said, 
penitently.  "  I  was  a  fool  to  do  it,  I  know. 
But  I  was  so  upset  last  night  —  I  scarcely  knew 
what  I  was  doing." 

"  But  why  did  you  take  it?  " 
1 06 


HIS   FRIENDS   DESTROYED   HIM 

But  again  it  was  Cassels  who  answered 
him. 

"  He  told  me  on  the  way  here  why  he  had 
taken  it.  He  was  afraid  you  would  find  the  — 
the  other  man  and  kill  him." 

Gascoyne's  face  cleared  a  little. 

"  In  any  case,  it  was  a  damned  silly  thing  to 
do,"  he  said. 

"  I  know  it  was,"  said  Bruton,  "  but  you've 
forgiven  me,  haven't  you?  It's  up  at  my  place 
—  I'll  get  it  you  this  afternoon  or  some  time 
to-morrow.  Look  here,  Cyril.  Why  not  come 
and  stay  with  me?  I've  plenty  of  room.  It'll 
be  a  change  for  you." 

"  Thanks.  But  I  don't  want  a  change.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  damned  tired.  I  think 
I'll  go  to  sleep." 

He  was  still  holding  his  revolver,  but  now  he 
put  it  down  on  the  dressing-table  with  a  gesture 
of  disgust. 

"  I'll  not  go  with  you  to  Eleusis,"  he  added. 
"Use  my  car,  won't  you?  You'll  find  it  round 
at  the  hotel  garage,  and  Eurinikos  will  drive 
you  if  you  want  him.  I'll  call  for  you  to-night 
after  dinner,  and  we'll  all  go  together  to  the 
Acropolis." 

"  Right,"  said  Cassels. 

"  But  are  you  sure  you'll  be  able  to  sleep?" 
asked  Bruton,  involuntarily  glancing  at  the  re- 
volver. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  be  able  to  sleep,"  answered 
Gascoyne,  irritably;  u  why  the  hell  shouldn't 
I?"  He  hesitated  a  moment.  "Well,  good- 

107 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

bye  for  the  present,"  he  added,  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  voice. 

"  See  you  to-night,  then,"  said  Cassels,  smiling 
frankly. 

The  two  friends  left  Gascoyne,  Bruton  closing 
the  door  in  careful  silence.  Out  in  the  street, 
he  asked: 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?" 

"  Look  here,  Harry,"  said  Cassels,  "  let's  not 
talk  about  it  at  all.  If  you  think  you  ought  to 
stay  with  him  we'll  wait  downstairs  until  he 
wakes  up.  But  if  you  think  he  can  be  safely 
left,  let's  go  out  for  the  day  together  and  forget 
all  about  him.  With  a  chap  like  that  you  don't 
know  how  much  is  sincere  and  how  much  is 
acting.  Probably  the  poor  devil  doesn't  know 
himself." 

"  But  he's  got  his  revolver  with  him!  " 
'Yes,  he  has.     What  then?" 

"  He  may  use  it." 

"  Precisely.  For  Heaven's  sake,  Harry,  do 
make  up  your  mind  what  you  are  going  to  do. 
But  let  me  tell  you  this  —  your  presence  irritates 
him,  and  it  is  much  better  for  him  to  be  left 
alone." 

"  Well,  then,  we'll  leave  him.  We  go  this 
way  for  the  garage." 


Dinner  that  night  at  the  Minerva  Hotel  was 
rather  a  dull  affair,  for  Bruton  even  at  the  third 
course  began  to  fidget  about  Gascoyne  and  to 
108 


HIS  FRIENDS  DESTROYED  HIM 

wonder  if  his  friend  were  lying  dead  in  his  bed- 
room. 

"  Let's  have  some  wine,  Harry,"  said  Cassels. 
"  What's  that  golden  booze  the  people  at  the 
next  table  are  drinking?  " 

"  Some  native  stuff  —  Olympus  they  call  it, 
I  think." 

"  Well,  we'll  have  a  bottle  —  two  bottles." 

But  the  more  Bruton  drank  the  more  despon- 
dent he  became,  and  over  coffee  and  liqueurs 
he  said: 

"  It's  quite  time  he  was  here.     Half-past  nine." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  do  keep  calm.  We  can 
do  nothing  but  wait." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  I  feel  we  ought  not  to 
have  left  him  alone  all  day.  How  rotten  he 
would  feel  when  he  woke  up!  And,  in  his 
present  condition,  he  may  be  annoyed  that 
we've  come  here  to  dine.  I  do  hope  my  servant 
has  given  him  my  note  telling  him  where  to 
find  us." 

He  moved  restlessly,  and  then  rose  to  his  feet. 
An  idea  had  struck  him.  It  was  possible  Gas- 
coyne  had  left  a  note  or  a  message  for  him  at 
his  flat  across  the  way. 

"Excuse  me  a  minute,  won't  you?  I've  left 
something  at  my  flat  that  I  want." 

He  hurried  away.  In  five  minutes  he  was 
back  again,  holding  a  note  in  his  hand. 

"  He  left  this  at  my  flat  this  afternoon,"  said 
Bruton,  agitatedly;  "  what  does  it  mean?" 

Cassels  read  the  following. 

109 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

I'm  not  coming  to-night.  I'm  staying  at 
home.  All  the  loveliness  of  the  world  has 
become  cruel.  Sympathy  is  an  intrusion  and 
kindness  bruises.  Yet  if  you  and  your  friend 
would  like  to  come  and  get  drunk  with  me  to- 
night, you  will  be  welcome. 

"  I  understand  his  mood  well  enough,"  said 
Cassels.  "  We'd  better  be  getting  along,  hadn't 
we?  The  best  thing  we  can  do  it  to  let  him 
drink  himself  to  sleep.  To-morrow  we'll  put 
the  screw  on." 

They  hurried  down  the  road  and  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  had  reached  the  big  white  house 
with  the  green  shutters.  In  the  moonlight  it 
looked  insubstantial,  ethereal,  like  some  enormous 
ghostly  bird  preparing  for  flight.  The  door  of 
the  main  entrance  showed  there  was  a  light 
in  the  hall,  and  through  the  half-closed  shutters 
of  one  of  the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor  more 
light  revealed  itself. 

They  rang,  but  there  was  no  response.  Nor 
did  their  knocking  evoke  any  movement  they 
could  hear.  Ringing  and  knocking  alternately, 
they  stood  for  five  minutes  or  so,  speaking  little, 
but  into  the  hearts  of  both  of  them  fear  had 
begun  to  creep. 

"Damned  funny!"  said  Bruton,  at  length. 
"  Look  here,  Dick,  will  you  stay  where  you  are 
while  I  go  and  investigate?  He  may  be  in  the 
garden  somewhere,  or  he  might  have  dropped 
off  to  sleep  in  one  of  the  outhouses." 
no 


Cassels,  sitting  down  on  the  top  step,  lit  his 
pipe.  Summing  up  the  situation  and  attempting 
to  calculate  the  chances  of  Gascoyne's  having 
committed  suicide,  he  muttered:  "More  than 
likely  —  more  than  likely.  A  chap  like  that 
might  do  it  just  for  the  sake  of  making  an  effect 
—  just  to  give  the  whole  affair  its  proper  dramatic 
close." 

Bruton  was  a  long  time  away.  At  last  he 
returned,  running. 

"Are  you  there,  Dick?  No:  I've  found 
nothing.  He's  not  there.  I've  tried  all  the 
windows  I  can  get  at,  but  they're  all  locked. 
His  servant  sleeps  out,  and  I  don't  know  where 
to  get  hold  of  him.  We  must  break  one  of  the 
windows." 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  we  must,  if  it's  only  to  ease 
our  own  minds.  This  damned  business  is  getting 
on  my  nerves." 

They  selected  the  smallest  window,  broke  it 
open,  and  entered  the  house. 

"  You'd  better  let  me  go  first,"  said  Cassels, 
"  my  nerves  are  a  bit  steadier  than  yours." 

They  entered  the  lit-up  room  —  the  room  in 
which  they  had  breakfasted.  It  was  untenanted. 
The  decanter  which,  earlier  in  the  day,  had  been 
half  full  was  now  empty;  by  its  side  was  a 
bottle  of  brandy  holding  a  third  of  its  original 
contents.  Without  a  word,  acting  on  the  same 
impulse,  they  left  the  room,  ascended  the  stairs 
and  entered  Gascoyne's  bedroom.  This  also  was 
untenanted.  Near  the  door  the  floor  was  covered 

in 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

with  the  debris  of  the  shattered  cast.  Bruton 
walked  to  and  almost  pounced  upon  the  dressing- 
table,  opening  one  drawer  after  another. 

"  His  revolver's  gone,"  he  said,  as  if  the  final 
word  had  been  spoken. 

"  Is  there  a  piano  in  the  house  ?  " 

"Yes  — why?" 

"  Let's  go  and  play  it.  It'll  pull  us  together 
a  bit.  After  all,  what  is  there  more  likely  than 
that  he's  gone  for  a  long  tramp?  Or  he  might 
have  changed  his  mind  and  gone  to  your  place 
after  all.  In  any  case  we  can  do  nothing  now 
but  wait." 

A  little  comforted,  Bruton  led  the  way  to  the 
music-room. 

"  Play  something,  Dick:  I'm  too  shaky,"  he 
said. 

So  Cassels  played  some  of  the  humane  if  rather 
turgid  music  of  Schumann  in  which  one  may 
always  find  balm  for  the  poisoned  mind.  The 
brooding  sound  brought  them  both  consolation 
for  a  time,  but  at  length  Bruton's  mind  wan- 
dered away  from  the  music,  and  he  began 
to  tease  and  lacerate  his  spirit  with  horrible 
thoughts. 

"  Supposing  he  is  lying  dead  in  a  cupboard 
somewhere,"  something  whispered  to  him,  "  or 
in  a  bath.  He  might  have  cut  a  vein  and  even 
at  this  moment  be  bleeding  to  death.  Or  he 
might  have  gone  on  to  the  roof."  Then,  rising 
from  his  chair,  he  said,  hurriedly: 

"Dick  —  we  must  go  and  look  for  him  —  we 
must  go  and  find  him  I  " 
112 


HIS   FRIENDS   DESTROYED   HIM 

At  the  first  word  Cassels'  fingers  dropped  life- 
less on  the  keys. 

"  I  was  thinking  the  same  thing  myself,"  he 
said.  "  We'll  do  the  ground-floor  first." 

Slowly  and  in  silence  they  went  from  one 
room  to  another,  switching  on  the  electric  lights 
and  looking  in  every  place  —  likely  and  unlikely 
—  which  a  man  might  have  chosen  to  hide  his 
own  dead  body  in.  The  rooms,  for  the  most 
part,  were  large  and  sparsely  furnished,  and  a 
mere  glance  was  in  many  cases  sufficient  to 
assure  them  that  there,  at  least,  no  tragedy  had 
been  enacted.  But  in  a  narrow,  long  passage 
leading  to  the  back  premises,  and  in  the  back 
premises  themselves,  were  many  cupboards. 
These  they  opened  one  by  one  and,  striking 
matches,  peered  inside. 

"  Damn  the  whole  business !  "  exclaimed 
Bruton;  "my  legs  feel  like  jelly.  Each  time 
I  look  I  expect  to  see  —  something." 

And  Cassels  found  that  the  hand  with  which 
he  held  the  matches  on  high  trembled.  His 
body  was  cold  and  he  felt  sick. 

Nothing  on  the  ground-floor.  In  the  room 
upstairs  there  was  much  more  furniture,  and 
they  feverishly  opened  the  lids  of  boxes  and 
ottomans,  looked  under  beds,  pulled  open  the 
doors  of  wardrobes,  and  searched  behind  curtains. 
Coming  out  of  the  third  bedroom  they  had 
searched,  they  both  suddenly  stood  still  with  a 
sensation  of  terrible  and  grotesque  fear:  Gas- 
coyne  was  standing  at  the  doorway,  leaning 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

drunkenly  against  the  jamb  and  watching  them. 

"Looking  for  me?"  he  asked. 
'  Yes,"  said  Cassels,  who  was  the  first  to  collect 
himself;  "  we  thought  you  had  fallen  asleep  in  one 
of  the  bedrooms.     We've   come   to   drink  with 
you." 

"  Drunk  enough,"  said  Gascoyne.  "  Been 
drinking  all  day.  However,  you  fellows  help 
yourselves:  plenty  of  drink  downstairs.  Stay- 
ing the  night?  Good.  I'm  going  to  bed. 
Choose  your  own  rooms.  S'long." 

He  groped  his  way  to  his  bedroom.  Bruton 
followed  him.  Cassels,  standing  in  the  passage, 
heard  the  following  conversation. 

"  Are  you  sure  you're  all  right,  Cyril?  " 

"  Course  I'm  all  right.  Why  the  hell  shouldn't 
I  be  all  right?  What's  the  matter  with  me,  eh? 
That's  what  I  want  to  know  —  what's  the  matter 
with  me?" 

"  Oh  —  nothing.  Of  course  there's  nothing. 
Good  night,  then." 

Bruton  emerged  from  the  room  pale  and  ex- 
cited. When  they  had  reached  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  he  whispered: 

"  I've  got  it.  I've  got  his  revolver.  I  took 
it  out  of  his  coat-pocket.  Look !  All  six  cham- 
bers are  loaded." 

After  a  drink  the  two  friends,  choosing  separate 

rooms,  went  to  bed. 

*  *  * 

It  must  have  been  about  three  o'clock  next 
morning  that  Cyril  Gascoyne  awoke  with  an 
intolerable  thirst.  For  a  little  while  he  lay 
114 


HIS  FRIENDS  DESTROYED  HIM 

wondering  where  he  was  and  trying  to  remember 
the  events  of  the  previous  day.  Like  a  night- 
mare they  came  to  him,  and  with  them  came 
a  feeling  of  self-disgust. 

Sitting  up  in  bed  he  groped  about  for  his  coat 
and,  taking  a  box  of  matches  from  one  of  his 
pockets,  struck  a  light.  Some  blind  instinct 
made  him  feel  in  the  right-hand  side-pocket  to 
discover  if  his  revolver  was  still  there.  The 
pocket  was  empty. 

In  a  flash  he  jumped  out  of  bed  and  turned 
on  the  light. 

"  Damn  him!  "  he  muttered;  "  he's  got  them 
both  now!  " 

And  then  his  brain,  overwrought  and  dizzied 
with  the  fumes  of  alcohol,  began  to  breed  the 
thoughts  and  desires  of  madness. 

"  So  Bruton  thought  I  was  going  to  commit 
suicide,  did  he?  And  he's  tried  to  outwit  me! 
The  damned  fool !  Why,  blast  it,  if  I'd  wanted 
to  shoot  myself  I  would  have  shot  myself.  Why 
not?  But  I'll  show  him.  He  can't  get  the 
better  of  me  —  I'm  damned  if  he  can." 

He  chuckled  with  insane  laughter,  and  his 
eyes  became  deep  with  cunning.  Having  turned 
out  the  electric  light,  he  lit  a  candle,  noiselessly 
opened  the  door,  and  listened.  Not  a  sound. 
Yes:  breathing  —  the  sound  of  someone  breath- 
ing deeply  in  his  sleep.  He  crept  along  the 
passage,  stopped  and  listened  again.  The  sound 
came  from  the  room  on  his  right,  the  door  of 
which  was  open.  For  a  brief  second  he  looked 
inside :  it  was  Bruton,  fast  asleep. 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

Gascoyne  had  no  doubt  at  all  that  his  revolver 
lay  under  the  pillow  beneath  Bruton's  head. 
He  was  as  confident  it  was  there  as  if  he  had 
seen  it.  He  extinguished  the  candle,  put  it  on 
the  floor,  and  crept  into  the  bedroom  on  his 
hands  and  knees,  making  no  sound,  and  breathing 
through  both  mouth  and  nostrils.  His  fingers 
slid  along  the  mattress  until  they  reached  the 
pillows.  Then  for  a  minute  he  paused.  Gently, 
gently  his  open  hand  felt  its  way  inch  by  inch, 
pressing  itself  hard  upon  the  mattress.  Again 
he  paused.  The  sleeper  did  not  move.  Then, 
once  more,  his  hand  began  its  stealthy  work, 
exploring,  sensitive,  apprehensive.  .  .  . 

In  ten  minutes  he  was  sitting  on  the  floor 
holding  the  revolver,  sweat  on  his  forehead,  a 
dreadful  dryness  in  his  throat.  And  now  he 
rose  to  his  feet  and  walked  quickly  and  agitatedly 
but  very  silently  to  his  own  room,  locking  the 
door  behind  him. 

"I'll  show  him!"  he  muttered.  "I'll  teach 
him  to  meddle." 

Taking  a  thick  eiderdown  quilt  from  a  cup- 
board, he  spread  it  carefully  on  the  bed.  Then, 
with  the  revolver  still  in  his  hand,  he  crept  head- 
first beneath  the  clothes,  dragging  them  closely 
around  him.  .  .  . 

No  one  heard  the  shot  that  was  fired.  ... 

Not  until  the  marvellous  April  dawn  of  Greece 
came  that  morning  did  Bruton  wake  up  and, 
jumping  out  of  bed,  try  oh !  so  quietly  to  open 
Gascoyne's  door.  For,  if  Gascoyne  slept,  he  did 
not  wish  to  wake  him. 
116 


THE   VICTIM 


To 

Marcel  Xystobam 


1  SUPPOSE  there  are  few  civilian  prisons  in 
the   Near   East   more   humanely   conducted 
and  governed  than  the  cosmopolitan  Citadel 
of  Salonika.     Yet  the  Citadel  is  most  inhuman. 
Men  rot  there :  their  brains  rot,  and  their  bodies 
become  flabby,  sickly  and  inert. 

If,  as  a  casual  and  inquiring  visitor,  you  enter 
through  the  archway,  you  will  be  told  to  go  to 
the  right  and  then  make  a  sudden  turn  to  the 
left  into  a  kind  of  cage  which  leads  you  to  a 
staircase;  mounting  the  stairs,  you  reach  a 
platform  placed  high  in  the  true  centre  of  a  circle. 
The  circle  below  you  is  divided  into  four  roofless 
segments:  in  one  segment  are  Greeks;  in 
another,  Bulgars;  in  the  third,  Turks;  in  the 
fourth,  Armenians,  Montenegrins,  Spanish  Jews, 
and  men  of  many  other  nationalities.  The  pris- 
oners are  separated  by  high  walls;  for  if  they 
mingled  with  each  other  they  would  fight,  and 
perhaps  kill;  but  well-behaved  victims  of  law,  if 
they  choose,  may  leave  for  a  short  time  one  seg- 
ment for  another. 

The  Citadel  is  inhuman  because  the  men  living 
there  are  not  compelled  to  work.  Any  work  is 
better  than  none.  Even  a  treadmill  is  a  boon 
compared  with  everlasting  indolence.  I  have 
been  there  many  times  and,  fascinated,  have 
watched  young  men  sitting  with  their  backs 
to  the  walls,  staring  with  unfocussed  eyes  at  — 
nothing.  Always  staring  at  nothing  and,  no 
doubt,  thinking  of  nothing,  and  hoping  nothing 
and  regretting  nothing. 

119 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 
For  this  reason  they  decay. 


Euripitos  Cavalcini  —  half  Greek,  half  Italian 
—  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his 
arrest,  trial  and  sentence.  Three  months  ago 
he  was  one  of  the  proudest  men  in  Salonika  — 
nay,  one  of  the  most  overbearing,  one  of  the 
most  insolent.  He  owned  much  land,  two  brew- 
eries, and  four  streets  of  houses  in  the  slums; 
he  kept  a  flaunting  large-bosomed  courtesan;  he 
was  a  patron  of  the  arts,  and  the  walls  of  two  of 
his  large  rooms  sported  many  of  Rops'  inde- 
cencies. He  commanded  respect,  admiration. 
As  soon  as  he  entered  a  bank,  lo!  the  manager 
was  by  his  side.  And  before  he  had  time  to  sit 
down  at  a  restaurant  table,  the  head  waiter  was 
reporting  to  him  the  latest  additions  to  his  wine- 
cellar. 

But  successful  and  magnificent  though  Euri- 
pitos Cavalcini  was,  he  had  his  limitations.  Life 
intoxicated  him,  and  his  grandiose  vanity  was 
an  incessant  drug.  In  Salonika  there  were 
cleverer  men  than  he,  and  when  he  floated  the 
India  Bazaar  Company  with  a  capital  of  half-a- 
million,  he  felt  strong  enough  to  own  half  the 
world  as  enemies.  But  he  was  found  out.  The 
colossal  swindle  ruined  many  families,  and  even 
before  he  was  pronounced  guilty  great  crowds 
of  men  and  women  would  gather  round  the 
court  to  cast  insult  upon  him  as  he  was  taken  in 
and  escorted  out. 
120 


THE     VICTIM 

The  sentence  of  two  years'  imprisonment  broke 
him.  His  .magnificence  fell  from  him  in  a  single 
hour,  and  the  insolent,  hot  spirit  of  him  became 
abased  and  cringing. 

That  is  why,  when  in  the  Citadel,  he  was  so 
humble.  The  lord  of  life  had  become  life's  slave. 
He  was  afraid  of  the  meanest  and  most  wretched 
of  his  fellow-prisoners.  Life  had  turned  upon 
him  once  and  brought  him  to  the  dust,  and  some 
dark  fear  warned  him  that  even  yet  life  had 
not  had  its  full  revenge. 

So  he  humbled  himself  and  served  others. 
The  courtesan  whom  he  had  loved  used,  twice 
a  week,  to  bring  him  food  —  cooked  meats,  fruit 
and  sometimes  a  bottle  of  wine.  These  he 
would  press  into  the  hands  of  others  —  especially 
those  who  eyed  him  with  contempt  or  who  were 
harsh  to  him.  Particularly  did  he  cultivate  the 
friendship  of  the  big  and  strong,  partly  because 
he  feared  them,  and  partly  because  he  hoped 
that  in  time  of  need  —  physical  need  —  they 
would  come  to  his  defence. 

Soon  he  became  the  victim  of  a  great  bearded 
man  with  small  eyes  of  cunning,  a  man  who, 
towering  contemptuously  above  others,  strode 
up  and  down  the  prison  half  his  waking  hours, 
his  thick  bare  arms  folded  on  his  chest,  his  head 
set  defiantly  upon  a  bullock-like  neck.  This  man 
was  named  Aristides,  and  it  was  said  he  was 
there  because  he  had  half-killed  a  demirep  who 
had  not  kept  faith  with  him. 

'*  Take  this,  Aristides,"  said  Cavalcini,  one 

121 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

afternoon,  pulling  a  bottle  of  wine  from  beneath 
his  cloak  and  furtively  handing  it  to  the  bearded 
giant  who  was  striding  hither  and  thither. 

Aristides,  taking  the  bottle  by  the  neck,  held 
it  up  above  his  head  against  the  sky's  brilliant 
blue. 

"It  is  full?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  it  is  full.  And  I  have  some  grapes 
also." 

A  big  bunch  of  grapes  changed  hands.  Aris- 
tides, having  torn  off  a  mouthful  with  his  teeth, 
chewed  them  meditatively,  spat  out  the  skins 
on  Cavalcini's  feet,  and  then  stared  down  on 
his  victim. 

"Anything  else?"  he  asked,  loudly. 

"  No,"  faltered  Cavalcini. 

With  a  snarling  smile  of  amused  contempt, 
Aristides  resumed  his  walk. 


There  were  terrible  hours  when  Cavalcini  gave 
way  to  morbid  introspection.  There  was  nothing 
in  him  that  he  kept  sacred  from  himself;  there 
was  nothing  so  vile  that  he  did  not  wish  to  under- 
stand it.  Yet  this  habit  of  introspection  dragged 
him  deeper  and  deeper  into  dejection. 

One  morning  he  threw  himself  on  the  ground 
near  the  wall  and  covered  his  face  with  his  cloak. 

;<  Why  am  I  so  afraid?"  he  asked  himself. 
"What  harm  can  come  to  me  here?  Aristides 
will  not  hurt  me.  Aristides  is  my  friend." 

Presently,  he  slept.  It  was  a  burning  July 
day,  and  here,  in  this  roofless  prison,  the  air 
122 


burned  one's  skin.  There  was  a  faint,  foul 
odour.  The  hard,  enamelled  sky  and  the  sun 
beating  on  the  walls  mocked  the  prisoners.  The 
sentry  on  the  little  raised  platform  in  their 
midst  looked  pale  and  ill.  A  boy-prisoner  — 
he  had  stabbed  his  mother  —  moaned  occasionally 
in  his  sleep.  There  was  little  sound  in  any  of 
the  prison's  four  compartments,  for  everyone 
was  lying  down  exhausted  —  some  asleep,  some 
merely  stupefied.  Everyone  except  Aristides. 
The  giant,  saturnine  and  insolent,  promenaded 
like  an  emperor  who  has  covered  himself  with 
degradation.  His  eyes,  examining  the  sweating 
men  around  him,  picked  out  Cavalcini.  Walk- 
ing up  to  him,  he  kicked  his  victim  on  the  but- 
tocks. Cavalcini  lifted  his  head  and,  seeing 
Aristides,  staggered  to  his  feet. 

"  Walk  with  me !  "  commanded  Aristides. 

For  a  full  hour  they  strode  up  and  down,  no 
word  passing  between  them,  Cavalcini  appre- 
hensive and  trembling,  Aristides  bearing  himself 
as  though  ten  thousand  eyes  were  upon  him. 


A  slow  month  crawled  from  the  future  into 
the  past.  There  were  hours  —  especially  at  night 
time  when  all  the  prisoners  lay  herded  together 
in  the  big  room  upstairs  —  in  which  Cavalcini 
took  the  edge  off  his  suffering  by  thoughts  and 
half-formulated  plans  of  escape.  In  his  heart 
he  knew  he  would  never  escape,  that  he  would 
never  attempt  it,  but  it  gave  him  pleasure  to 
devise  schemes  for  eluding  the  sentry,  for  staling 

123 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

the  walls,  for  leaving  Salonika  for  the  freer  world 
of  Marseilles  or  Port  Said. 

One  day  he  thought  he  would  curry  favour  with 
Aristides  by  talking  to  him  of  his  plans.  So, 
very  humbly  and  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  he 
walked  over  to  where  the  big  bearded  man  was 
standing. 

"  I've  had  something  on  my  mind  for  a  long 
time  past,"  he  began ;  "  something  in  which  you 
might  be  willing  to  help  me." 

'Well,"  said  Aristides,  "what  is  it?" 

"  Escape  —  escape  from  this  den  —  this  den 
of  animals." 

His  companion  laughed. 

"  Isn't  that  what  most  of  us  have  been  think- 
ing of  ever  since  we  came  here?  Try  again: 
think  of  something  new." 

"  But  it  could  be  done.     I'm  sure  of  it." 

"Can  you  scale  the  wall?"  asked  Aristides, 
nodding  towards  the  outer  wall  that  seemed  to 
tower  in  the  sky. 

"  No.  But  I  might  walk  through  gates  that 
are  locked  and  barred." 

"  How?     Speak  out.     Don't  play  with  me." 

"  I  mean  bribery.  I  have  money  —  plenty  of 
money.  That  is  to  say,  I  can  get  plenty." 

"How  much?" 

"  A  thousand  drachmae.  Ten  thousand  drach- 
mae." 

"Ho-ho?" 

Aristides  spat. 

"  You  want  my  help?  "  he  asked. 
124 


THE    VICTIM 

"  I  thought  we  might  get  away  together," 
said  Cavalcini,  afraid  of  what  he  had  already 
spoken,  and  horrified  at  the  things  he  yet  might 
utter.  "  Two  can  sometimes  contrive  a  thing 
that  is  impossible  for  one,"  he  added. 

"  Well,"  said  Aristides,  "  ten  thousand  drach- 
mae would  not  be  enough.  Can  you  get  twenty 
thousand?  " 

"  I  might.  I  will  try.  My  friend  is  coming 
this  afternoon  with  my  food.  I  will  ask  her  what 
she  can  do." 

And  as  Aristides  stood  silently  contemptuous, 
Cavalcini  turned  miserably  away,  feeling  that 
he  had  committed  himself  to  some  frightful 
scheme  he  could  not  possibly  carry  out,  and  that 
he  had  done  so  to  no  purpose,  for  it  was  obvious 
Aristides  was  no  better  disposed  towards  him 
now  than  he  had  been  before. 

"  I  must  not  talk  to  anyone  again,"  he  said 
to  himself;  "  my  nerve  is  gone,  and  I  say  things 
I  do  not  mean." 

It  was  true  he  could  get  the  sum  of  money  he 
had  named,  but  it  was  not  true  that  he  wished 
to  attempt  to  escape.  Only  heroes  and  very 
desperate  men  escaped  from  that  prison,  and  he 
was  too  deeply  involved  in  misery  to  be  desperate. 
But  when  his  mistress  came  and  he  spoke  to  her 
for  a  few  moments,  as  the  prison  rules  permitted, 
he  told  her  how  to  get  the  money. 

"Bring  it  next  time  you  come  —  bring  it  in 
hundred-drachmae  notes.  Wrap  them  into  a 
little  parcel  and  when  you  are  talking  to  me, 

125 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

slip  it  into  this  pocket  of  my  tunic.  I  will  stand 
as  I  am  standing  now.  But  be  very  careful  you 
are  not  observed." 

"  But  where  shall  you  go  when  you  es- 
cape? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  miserably. 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  of  compassion, 
took  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him. 

A  few  days  later  she  called  again,  and  passed 
the  money  into  his  pocket,  unobserved. 

"  Don't  get  yourself  into  worse  trouble  than 
you  are  in  now,  mon  p'tit,"  she  said,  her  eyes  full 
of  tears. 

He  took  the  notes  to  Aristides,  retaining  five 
hundred  drachmae  for  himself,  of  which  he  told 
Aristides  nothing. 

"  I  have  brought  you  the  money,"  he  said. 

Aristides'  small  eyes  almost  disappeared  into 
his  head  with  greed  and  cunning. 

"Do  not  give  me  it  now,"  he  said;  "many 
eyes  are  upon  us.  That  swine  of  a  sentry  is 
looking.  Wait  until  we  go  to  bed." 

And  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  began  walking 
disdainfully  to  and  fro. 

Now,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing,  the 
sentry  on  duty  over  the  prisoners  in  the  Citadel 
was  relieved  every  two  hours.  By  day  there 
was  only  one  sentry;  by  night  there  were  two  — 
one  in  the  "  compound,"  one  on  the  gallery  above. 
Against  one  of  these  men  Aristides  nursed  a 
fanatical  hatred.  They  had  known  each  other 
for  a  long  time;  indeed,  they  were  both  from 
the  same  mountain  village;  but  they  had  not  met 
126 


THE     VICTIM 

for  many  years.  Critias  had  married  the  girl 
Aristides  loved,  and  though  she  was  now  dead 
and  Critias  had  come  down  in  the  world,  never- 
theless Aristides'  hatred  had  flamed  anew  at 
sight  of  his  old  enemy.  Nor  had  Critias  wished 
for  a  reconciliation;  on  the  contrary,  he  had 
sought  every  opportunity  to  revile  and  taunt 
Aristides  in  his  state  of  bondage.  Aristides  had 
sworn  to  have  revenge  on  the  sentry  before  he 
left  the  prison,  and  so  near  was  his  hatred  and 
so  dear  was  the  thought  of  vengeance,  that  he 
could  not  persuade  himself  to  attempt  to  escape 
until  he  had  done  his  worst  against  his  old 
enemy. 

As  he  walked  hither  and  thither,  his  thick 
hairy  arms  folded  on  his  chest,  his  chin  on  his 
bosom,  he  matured  the  half-formed  plans  that 
had  come  to  his  mind  on  the  first  occasion  on 
which  Cavalcini  had  spoken  to  him  of  escape. 
His  term  of  imprisonment  had  only  three  more 
months  to  run:  he  would  gladly  serve  those 
months  if  he  could  compass  the  death  of  his 
enemy,  throw  the  guilt  upon  another,  and  secure 
at  least  a  substantial  portion  of  the  money 
Cavalcini  possessed. 

The  whole  thing  was  so  simple  that  he  smiled 
contemptuously  at  Cavalcini  as  he  passed  him. 


That  night  as  they  were  preparing  for  bed, 
Cavalcini  once  more  offered  the  money  to  Aris- 
tides. 

"  Give  me  half,"  said  the  giant,  "  and  keep 

127 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

the  other  half  for  yourself.  I  will  tell  you  my 
plans  to-morrow." 

"  But  where  shall  I  hide  it?  "  asked  Cavalcini. 

"  Where  I  hide  mine  —  in  the  pocket  of  your 
robe.  Nobody  would  think  of  looking  there 
for  valuables." 

And  he  ostentatiously  put  the  notes  Cavalcini 
had  given  him  in  the  inside  pocket  of  his  robe. 

But  before  an  hour  had  gone  Aristides  had 
secretly  removed  them  to  the  middle  of  the  straw 
in  his  mattress. 

Cavalcini  could  not  sleep.  His  head  was  hot 
and  light  with  anxiety.  He  would,  he  knew, 
have  to  attempt  to  escape  with  Aristides,  yet 
the  prospect  of  this  attempt  terrified  him.  But 
Aristides,  it  was  evident,  was  depending  upon 
him,  and  he  did  not  dare  to  disappoint  him. 

Because  of  his  apprehensiveness,  Cavalcini's 
senses  became  abnormally  keen,  and  it  was  with 
a  feeling  of  nausea  that  he  felt  the  sour  odour 
of  his  fellow-prisoners  as  they  turned  in  their 
beds.  He  could  hear  a  low  voice  in  distress  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room,  and  he  told  himself  that 
it  must  be  the  wretched  boy-prisoner  talking 
in  his  sleep. 

And  then  he  became  aware  of  someone  moving: 
there  was  no  sound,  and  the  sense  of  movement 
was  not  conveyed  to  his  brain  by  his  eyes. 
It  was  as  though  stealthy  and  impending  disaster 
were  in  the  air,  impinging  on  his  brain  through 
some  unknown  sense-channel. 

He  raised  his  head  an  inch  and  saw  the  bulky 
form  of  Aristides  approaching.  Cavalcini  shook 
128 


THE     VICTIM 

with  fear.  The  giant  was  undressed,  and  his 
form,  without  his  long,  flowing  robe,  seemed 
much  larger  and  stronger  than  when  fully  clad. 
Nearer  and  nearer  he  crept  until  he  reached 
Cavalcini's  bed,  where  he  stopped.  The  little 
man  simulated  sleep,  but  under  his  lids  his  eyes 
watched  what  might  befall.  Aristides  took 
Cavalcini's  robe  from  the  end  of  his  bed  and 
donned  it;  it  fitted  grotesquely.  Then,  in  si- 
lence, he  passed  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  made 
his  way  to  the  treacherous,  winding  stone  stair- 
way leading  to  the  four  compartments  below. 

Terrified,  hypnotized,  Cavalcini  sat  up  in  bed, 
crawled  to  its  foot,  and  watched  this  wanderer 
in  the  night.  He  saw  Aristides  —  for  there  was 
a  moon  —  descend  the  steps  and  crawl  by  the 
side  of  the  wall  as  cruelly  and  as  sinuously  as 
a  tiger.  The  sentry,  twenty  yards  from  Aristides, 
appeared  to  be  facing  him,  but  it  seemed  certain 
he  saw  nothing,  for  he  made  no  movement  and 
called  out  no  challenge.  Aristides  stopped,  ad- 
vanced a  little,  and  stopped  again,  crouching. 
His  body  was  so  tightly  squeezed  against  the 
wall  that  to  Cavalcini  it  seemed  to  have  become 
part  of  it.  For  a  long  time  he  did  not  move. 
But  when  the  sentry  turned  his  back  on  the 
would-be  murderer  and  with  slow  regular  paces 
began  to  walk  away  from  him,  Aristides  rushed 
forward  with  a  bound.  Cavalcini  could  not  see 
what  happened  next,  but  he  caught  the  glint 
of  a  knife  raised  on  high,  and  a  few  seconds  later 
he  saw  the  sentry  lying  motionless  on  the  ground 
and  the  giant  running  back  to  the  stone  stair- 

129 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

way.  It  had  all  taken  in  place  in  absolute  silence. 
For  a  few  moments  Cavalcini  did  not  realize 
what  had  happened.  When,  at  last,  he  under- 
stood, his  brain  seemed  to  freeze  with  horror. 
Trembling,  he  sank  back  on  his  pillow  and  shut 
his  eyes.  He  dared  not  move :  it  was  dangerous 
even  to  breathe.  He  felt,  rather  than  saw 
Aristides  return  and  pass  his  bed,  and  he  knew 
that  his  robe  had  been  replaced. 

Silence,  save  for  the  rapid,  distressed  mutter- 
ing of  a  boy-prisoner  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 
After  what  had  happened,  it  seemed  an  outrage 
that  the  night  should  continue.  Cavalcini,  feel- 
ing himself  to  be  the  victim  of  evil  powers  it 
was  useless  to  resist,  lay  shivering  with  cold  in 
the  warm  night,  saying  to  himself  over  and  over 
again. 

"  He  has  killed  the  wrong  man !  Why  didn't 
he  kill  me?  He  has  killed  the  wrong  man! 
Why  didn't  he  kill  me?" 

Suddenly,  down  in  the  "  compound "  below, 
a  voice,  sharp  and  clear,  rang  out.  The  guard 
was  being  summoned.  The  body  had  been 
found.  Armed  soldiers  entered.  Torches  and 
candles  were  brought.  Orders  were  given  and 
countermanded.  Swords  were  drawn  and  bay- 
onets fixed.  In  two  or  three  minutes  the  soldiers 
began  to  climb  the  stairway  and  take  up  positions 
along  the  gallery,  fifteen  paces  apart,  by  the  pri- 
soners' beds.  A  shrill  whistle  was  blown  many 
times  until  all  the  prisoners  were  awake. 

"Every  man  will  sit  up  in  bed!"  called  out 
the  officer  in  charge  of  the  guard,  speaking 
130 


THE     VICTIM 

alternately  in  several  languages.  "  If  anyone 
attempts  to  get  out  of  bed,  he  will  be  shot." 

And  then  began  a  systematic  search.  Caval- 
cini  only  dimly  realized  what  was  happening,  but 
when  the  officer  and  a  sergeant  reached  his  bed 
he  became  a  ghastly  victim  of  terror.  His  very 
looks  condemned  him.  The  officer  eyed  him  with 
searching  suspicion. 

"  Get  out  of  bed  and  stand  up!  "  he  ordered. 

Cavalcini  put  his  feet  on  the  floor  and  attempted 
to  stand,  but  he  collapsed  on  the  bed,  a  miserable 
heap  of  quaking  fear. 

"Blood!"  exclaimed  the  sergeant.  "Look! 
There's  blood  on  his  gown !  " 

"  Stand  up!  "  commanded  the  officer. 

Cavalcini  slipped  to  the  floor  and  crawled  for- 
ward on  his  hands  and  knees,  gibbering. 

Then  the  officer,  searching  the  pockets  of 
Cavalcini's  gown,  pulled  out  a  handful  of  hundred- 
drachma  notes. 

"  Arrest  him !  "  he  said,  calmly. 

Cavalcini  was  pulled  on  to  his  feet  and  half- 
dragged,  half-carried  to  the  dark  little  hole,  less 
than  four  feet  high,  that  is  to  be  found  in  the 
stone  wall  at  the  top  of  the  stairway. 

There  he  lay  in  a  muddled  heap,  bereft  of 
sense,  every  nerve  quivering. 


Three  months  later,  Aristides,  with  his  woman, 
was  dining  at  one  of  the  flashy  restaurants  on  the 
quay-side. 

'Tell  me!  "  s'he  said,  pressing  her  foot  upon 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

his  and  rubbing  his  calf  against  her  knee;  "  tell 
me!     Where  did  you  get  all  your  money?  " 

"  Well,"  said  he,  smiling  at  her  cunningly,  "  it 
was  given  me  by  a  great  friend  of  mine  in  prison. 
He  used  to  give  me  half  of  everything  he  had. 
Poor  devil!  He's  dead.  They  shot  him.  He 
didn't  behave  himself  very  well.  He  murdered 
one  of  the  sentries." 


132 


TRENCH    MADNESS 


To 

Ellary  Warden 


LE  Grand  Couronne  was  the  last  of  the 
mountain  peaks  to  disappear  in  the  dark- 
ness that  so  quickly  follows  twilight  in 
Greece.     To     Valentine     Latimer,     excited     by 
malaria,   it  seemed  to  curtesy  as  it  went.     He 
raised  himself  on  to  the  fire-step,   took  off  the 
gauze  mask  that  protected  his  face  from  mos- 
quitoes, and  handed  it  to  his  orderly. 

'Won't  you  keep  it  on,  sir?"  asked  his  or- 
derly; "  the  mosquitoes  are  out  in  their  millions 
to-night." 

"  It'll  make  no  difference,"  said  Latimer,  "  and 
I  can't  breathe  with  that  damned  thing  smother- 
ing me.  .  .  .  How  heavy  the  air  is !  " 

His  servant  stood  behind  him  leaning  with  his 
back  against  the  rock  trench-wall,  his  head  —  so 
tall  was  he  —  almost  touching  the  parados. 

"  We'd  better  visit  the  sentry-groups,  Morgan," 
said  Latimer. 

The  man  had  slung  his  rifle,  but  Latimer  did  not 
move.  He  was  listening  to  the  fitful  rustle  of 
the  trees  immediately  overhead.  The  sound  re- 
minded him  of  his  father's  garden  at  home  — 
the  garden  in  which  he  had  spent  the  happiest 
hours  of  his  life.  The  little  breeze  went  its  way, 
and  almost  immediately  a  sour  smell  stole  up 
from  the  trench.  Into  his  fevered  brain  came 
the  word  "  decay  .  .  .  decay,"  and  stayed  there 
like  a  drop  of  poison. 

"  Everything  is  strangely  quiet,"  he  observed. 

'  Yes,  sir,"  said  Morgan. 

And,  indeed,  the  silence  was  as  heavy  as  the 
heavy  air.  Latimer  had  the  curious  feeling  that 

135 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

he  and  his  orderly  were  the  only  people  in  that 
country-side,  and  when  a  cough  broke  upon  the 
stillness,  he  started. 

;<  That's  number  two  group,"  said  he,  mechani- 
cally; "  Corporal  Davies  is  in  charge  there,  eh, 
Morgan?" 

Some  sickly  lines  of  Edgar  Allen  Poe  started 
up  in  his  brain  and  began  to.  race  along  it,  repeat- 
ing themselves  again  and  again.  Though  he  was 
a  little  worried  by  their  repetition,  they  gave  him 
a  sense  of  romance,  of  power. 

"  We'll  start  from  the  ravine  and  work  up- 
wards," he  said,  stepping  onto  the  duck-boards. 

Though  both  officer  and  servant  were  well 
acqainted  with  those  steep  and  winding  trenches, 
they  had  to  feel  their  way  along,  so  black  was 
the  night,  so  ineffective  the  light  of  the  glinting 
and  eager  stars.  They  came  upon  a  group  of 
men  in  a  fire-bay;  two  of  them,  stretched  on  the 
fire-step,  were  asleep.  The  sentry  on  duty  stood 
looking  over  the  top  of  the  trench;  by  his  side  was 
the  N.C.O.  in  charge  of  the  group. 

"Everything  all  right,  Corporal?"  asked 
Latimer,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Everything,  sir,"  whispered  the  corporal. 

A  few  yards  further  on,  Latimer  stopped.  He 
wanted  to  cry  out.  He  longed  to  scream  wildly 
and  break  this  conspiracy  of  silence.  Suddenly, 
it  seemed  to  him  as  though  the  entiry  country- 
side were  for  a  brief  second  illuminated  by  a 
magnificent  burst  of  light:  Le  Grand  Couronne 
was  revealed  from  top  to  toe;  in  the  slits  crink- 
ling the  breasts  and  flanks  of  the  mountain  he 
136 


TRENCH     MADNESS 

saw  dark,  bearded  Bulgars,  bullet-headed  and 
yellow-toothed.  They  were  all  gazing  at  him 
with  cruel,  malignant  eyes.  .  .  .  The  hallucina- 
tion passed. 

"  I  feel  ill,  Morgan,"  he  said. 

Morgan,  a  man  twice  Latimer's  age  —  for 
Latimer  was  still  in  his  teens  —  took  from  his 
pocket  a  bottle  of  tabloids. 

'  You  ought  to  have  gone  sick  this  morning, 
sir,"  said  Morgan;  "  or,  better  still,  let  me  take 
you  to  the  telephone  dug-out.  .  .  .  Have  a 
drink  from  my  water-bottle,  sir.  .  .  .  Ask  Cap- 
tain Mitchell  to  send  another  officer  out  to  relieve 
you." 

"  Oh,  no ;  I'll  stick  it  out.  But  let  me  have  a 
drink." 

But  the  water  had  none  of  the  virtue  of  water: 
it  was  tepid  and  sickly,  and  it  tasted  slightly  of 
grease.  .  .  . 

The  sound  of  a  single  rifle-shot  from  the 
enemy's  lines  ripped  the  silence.  It  meant  noth- 
ing: it  was  nothing.  Yet  Latimer  cursed  beneath 
his  breath. 

"  Let's  get  on,"  he  said,  and  proceeded  to  feel 
his  way  towards  the  ravine. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  reached  it.  Here  was 
another  sentry-group.  Assuring  himself  that  all 
was  in  order,  he  began  to  retrace  his  steps.  He 
was  conscious  of  nothing  except  the  procession 
of  fantasies  and  memories  within  his  brain :  verses 
he  had  written  last  year  beneath  the  young  flower- 
ing laburnum  in  his  father's  garden;  a  girl's  hand 
in  which  his  heart  seemed  to  be  inevitably  cupped; 

137 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

a  flannelled  figure,  with  a  rapid,  crushing  serve, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  tennis-net;  barbaric  music 
from  "  Boris  Godounov,"  which  he  had  heard  in 
that  wonderful  summer  of  1914;  a  great  day  on 
the  river  with  his  friend.  At  first  these  memories 
came  singly;  then  they  clustered  together  horribly 
and  seemed  to  menace  him. 

"  Fever:  just  fever,"  he  assured  himself. 
'  Yes  —  just  fever,"  echoed  his  orderly. 

Latimer  turned  upon  him  with  his  arms  out- 
stretched. 

"  Did  I  talk  aloud?  "  he  asked,  in  dread. 

"  Why,  yes,  sir.  Weren't  you  speaking  to 
me?" 

Soon  their  way  became  very  steep,  for  the 
system  of  trenches  took  the  side  of  a  hill:  here 
and  there  they  were  compelled  to  climb  with 
hands  as  well  as  feet.  When  near  the  top  of 
the  hill,  Latimer  took  off  his  heavy  metal  helmet 
and  wiped  his  wet  forehead  with  the  back  of  his 
hand. 

"  Only  one  more  sentry  post,  thank  God!  "  he 
said. 

Then,  suddenly,  an  enemy  battery  opened  fire 
on  that  sector  of  which  Latimer  had  temporary 
charge.  Most  of  the  shells  dropped  in  the  Little 
Wood  down  below.  A  machine-gun  from  La 
Tortue,  on  their  right  flank,  chattered  incessantly, 
and  two  trench-mortars  from  the  same  place  shook 
the  air  and  shattered  it. 

Latimer  hurried  down  the  hill  with  his  orderly 
behind  him.  In  five  minutes  they  were  in  the 
Little  Wood.  All  the  shells  were  dropping  short. 
138 


TRENCH     MADNESS 

This  sort  of  thing  was  likely  to  continue  at  in- 
tervals all  night:  it  was  the  enemy's  usual  pro- 
cedure. 

In  the  Little  Wood,  which  smelt  so  stalely, 
Latimer  sat  down  and  suddenly  began  to  vomit. 
His  orderly  stood  by  regarding  him  compassion- 
ately; he  took  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket 
and  handed  it  to  his  master.  In  a  few  minutes 
Latimer,  trembling  and  cold,  rose  and  started  to 
creep  down  the  trench  to  the  ravine.  .  .  . 

A  few  hours  later  dawn  began  to  paint  the  sky 
yellow,  and  the  mountains  moved  out  of  the  dark 
and  assumed  their  daily  places.  In  half-an-hour 
Latimer  would  be  relieved. 

"  Report  yourself  to  Sergeant  Black,  Morgan: 
I  shan't  want  you  any  more." 

He  turned  for  a  second  to  give  his  orderly  a 
ghost  of  a  smile,  and  then,  placing  his  arms  on 
the  parapet,  watched  what  was  happening  to  the 
mountains  and  the  sky.  His  large  eyes  glistened. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful!  How  very  beautiful!" 
he  exclaimed  aloud,  as  he  gazed  at  the  violet  mist 
at  the  feet  of  the  Belashitza  Mountains.  "  I  do 
wish  father  was  here.  ...  I  do  wish  fa- 
ther .  .  ." 

"  Hello,  Latimer!     How  goes  it?  " 

The  boy  turned  round:  his  company  com- 
mander was  standing  behind  him,  looking  at  him 
curiously. 

"  You  see  how  it  is,  sir,"  said  Latimer,  gravely, 
"  When  night  goes  .  .  ." 

His  eyes  quickly  became  dilated,  and  he  swayed 
a  little. 

139 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  You're  ill,  laddie.  Come  back  to  Head- 
quarters with  me." 

"  Fever  —  just  fever.  People  have  been  play- 
ing tennis  in  my  head  all  night.  And  Morgan's 
killed.  I  wish  I  was  dead  myself." 

His  lips  trembled  and  a  dry  sob  shook  his 
shoulders. 

"  I  do  wish  father  was  here,"  he  said. 


140 


LOOT 


To 

Frank  Harris 


IN  their  little  flat  between  Rue  Egnatia  and 
the  northern  end  of  Rue  Venizelos,  Marie 
and  Alys  Cruchot  deemed  themselves  safe 
from  the  great  fire  which,  no  one  quite  knew  how, 
broke  out  in  Salonika  that  oppressive  Sunday  in 
August,  1917.  Their  habit  of  holding  them- 
selves aloof  from  their  neighbours,  of  disdaining 
even  to  recognize  their  neighbours'  existence,  had 
isolated  them  from  all  local  news,  and  in  the  hours 
of  excitement  that  filled  Sunday  evening  they  held 
themselves  more  proudly  than  ever.  The  fire  was 
a  very  long  way  off,  and  even  if  it  should  spread 
in  their  direction,  it  must  be  days  before  it  could 
reach  them. 

Marie,  the  elder  sister,  was  golden-haired  and 
slim  and  tall:  her  skin  was  golden,  and  gold- 
brown  were  her  eyes.  She  was  twenty-three. 
Alys  had  her  sister's  straightness  and  slimness; 
but  her  hair  was  dark,  her  skin  was  very  white, 
and  her  eyes  were  almost  lilac-blue.  Alys  was 
nineteen. 

Their  father  had  been  chaplain  to  the  French 
colony  in  Salonika,  and  immediately  after  his 
death  in  1914  the  two  girls  had  been  compelled 
to  rely  upon  their  own  efforts  for  the  means  of 
support.  Refusing  all  offers  of  help  from  their 
friends,  they  quickly  acquired  a  working  know- 
ledge of  shorthand,  and  were  now  employed  as 
typists  in  the  great  store  in  Rue  Venizelos  from 
ten  till  six. 

None  guarded  their  virtue  so  carefully  as  they 
guarded  theirs:  no  lives  were  more  secluded  or 
better  ordered.  To  those  whom  circumstances 

143 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

compelled  them  to  know,  they  were  very  gentle; 
but  to  strangers  they  presented  a  reserved  and 
haughty  front  that  protected  them  from  all  whom 
their  beauty  attracted  and  fascinated. 

"Shall  we  go  to  bed?"  asked  Marie,  late  in 
the  evening. 

"  Well,"  said  Alys,  rather  gravely,  "  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  feel  too  excited  to  sleep." 

She  was  standing  at  the  window  looking  at  a 
livid  sky. 

Marie  rose  from  her  work  at  the  table  and 
joined  her  sister. 

"Look!"  said  Alys;  "isn't  it  wonderful?  I 
think  it's  going  to  be  one  of  the  big  fires  of  his- 
tory. Some  day  children  will  learn  about  this  in 
school-books." 

Marie  put  her  arm  round  her  sister's  neck  and 
patted  her  cheek. 

'  Yes,  little  princess,  it  is  wonderful.  Look 
at  that  smoke,  how  it  rolls  and  writhes!  —  just 
as  though  it  felt  angry." 

Alys  nodded  and  nestled  closer  to  her  sister. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  asked  Marie. 

"Oh,  no:  not  afraid:  it  is  too  beautiful  to 
make  me  afraid.  Perhaps  I  am  what  is  called 
awe-struck." 

In  the  street  below  men  and  women  were  rush- 
ing to  and  fro  distractedly,  carrying  armfuls  of 
their  household  goods  —  blankets,  mattresses, 
pots  and  pans,  bird-cages,  babies,  carpets,  cradles, 
chairs,  etc.  They  dumped  them  in  the  street, 
the  womenfolk  sitting  on  them  whilst  their  men 
went  far  afield  seeking  means  of  transport. 
144 


LOOT 

Across  the  street,  on  the  second  storey,  a  wine- 
merchant,  at  his  wits'  end,  was  hurling  casks  of 
wine  onto  the  pavement  below;  each  burst  open 
with  a  crash,  the  wine  rushing  out  and  making 
a  thick  stream  in  the  gutter.  No  one  stopped 
to  laugh  at  him. 

*  What  cowards  these  natives  are !  "  exclaimed 
Marie,  with  disgust;  "  they  always  begin  to  squeal 
before  they're  hurt." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  out  and  wander  about 
and  see  what  everybody  is  doing,"  said  Alys. 

"  Better  not,"  counselled  Marie.  "  There'll  be 
a  lot  of  looting,  I  expect,  and  half  the  natives 
will  be  drunk.  Look  how  frightfully  excited 
they  all  are !  But  we  must  not  get  too  excited 
or  we  shall  never  sleep.  We  have  to  work  to- 
morrow, you  know." 

Still,  they  stood  for  a  long  time  at  the  window, 
fascinated  yet  contemptuous.  The  scene  below 
grew  wilder  minute  by  minute.  The  vast  white 
furnace  half  a  mile  away  lit  up  the  street.  Con- 
fusion was  everywhere.  Occasionally,  a  woman's 
shriek  came  up  to  them  like  a  stupid  bit  of 
theatricality.  Now  and  again  a  band  of  young 
men  brandishing  sticks  marched  down  the  street, 
singing  and  laughing. 

At  last,  Marie  drew  her  sister  within  the  room. 

"  Thank  God  we  are  not  as  other  people,"  she 
said,  smiling.  "  Let  us  go  to  bed." 

They  shared  the  same  room.  Alys  was  afraid, 
but  she  did  not  dare  confess  her  fear  to  her  sister. 
Marie  had  always  taught  her  that  they  were 
better  than  other  people.  No  doubt  they  were 

145 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

better.  Nevertheless,  she  trembled  a  little  as  she 
knelt  down  to  pray.  Her  fear  increased  when 
she  discovered  that  she  was  mumbling  words  with- 
out any  thought  or  hope  behind  them. 

Suddenly,  she  started  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

:'  What  is  that?  "  she  asked,  panting. 

They  heard  the  noise  of  heavy  furniture  being 
moved  in  the  flat  above. 

"  I  was  wondering  how  long  they  would  dare 
to  stay,"  said  Marie,  contemptuously.  "  This  is 
a  city  of  cowards." 

Alys  slipped  into  bed,  and  Marie,  who  slept 
at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  came  over  and 
kissed  her. 

"Are  you  quite  sure?"  asked  Alys. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  little  dear?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  But  we  really  are  safe,  aren't 
we?" 

"  Of  course  we  are.  Even  if  they  don't  put 
the  fire  out,  it  can't  reach  us  for  days  and  days. 
Goodnight,  princess.  Sleep  well!  " 

She  put  her  arm  round  her  sister's  neck  and, 
for  a  little  minute,  lingered  in  love,  blessing  her. 
Then  she  rose,  walked  over  to  her  own  bed  and, 
having  drawn  the  thick  curtains  over  the  windows, 
blew  out  the  solitary  candle. 

But  Alys  could  not  sleep.  She  only  half-slept. 
Her  tired  little  body  seemed  to  sleep,  but  her 
mind  buried  itself  in  fancies  —  the  sort  of  fancies 
that  come  to  us  in  fever.  This  is  what  her 
imagination  said  to  her : 

"  //  the  fire  should  come  up  the  stair,  walking, 
running.  Then  Marie  and  I  would  have  to  jump 
146 


LOOT 

from  the  window.  .  .  .  You  can  buy  fire.  They 
put  fire  on  the  end  of  little  match-stalks  and  sell 
him.  They  imprison  him  in  tiny  bits  of  phos- 
phorus. .  .  .  Oh,  yes:  just  rub  a  match  between 
your  moist  palms  in  the  dark  and  your  hands  seem 
to  be  on  fire.  But  it  isn't  fire,  really  —  just  a 
strange  kind  of  light.  .  .  .  Imprison!  But  no 
one  likes  being  caged  up.  Fire  doesn't.  Some- 
times he  leaps  out  of  his  cage  —  like  to-night  — 
and  just  shows  you.  ...  If  we  were  in  the  street, 
we  should  be  trampled  on.  Marie  has  not 
thought  of  these  things.  .  .  .  Tiny  bits  of  phos- 
phorus. Just  matches.  .  .  ." 

Most  wildly  did  these  fancies  crowd  upon  her. 
Real  sleep  came  at  last. 

Marie  and  Alys  were  the  only  two  who  slept 
that  night  in  that  quarter  of  the  town. 


Adolph's  face  was  thin  and  intellectual.  He 
had  beautiful  hands,  and  his  wrists  and  ankles 
were  as  thin  as  an  athlete's.  He  sat  in  his  gaudy 
brothel,  drinking. 

"  A  real  God-send,"  he  said  to  his  partner, 
and  as  he  spoke  he  tapped  his  fingers  on  the 
little  table  holding  their  drinks.  "  A  real  slap- 
up  present  from  the  Almighty.  Delivered  free 
of  charge." 

"  Oh  yes,  oh  yes :  God  is  good.  But  what  are 
we  to  do?"  asked  his  partner,  the  man  whom 
they  called  Tansy. 

"  Well,  it's  simply  a  matter  of  choice.  We've 
plenty  to  select  from.  All  our  customers  are 

147 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

sick  of  these  Barcelona  girls:  they  haven't  a 
bite  left  in  them.  They  start  in  Paris.  Their 
bloom  off,  they  go  to  London.  When  London's 
sucked  them  dry,  they  go  to  Marseilles  and  from 
Marseilles  to  Port  Said  and  from  Port  Said  they 
come  here  and  from  here  they  go  to  ...  well, 
I  suppose  they  go  to  Hell.  Not  a  single  one 
comes  from  Barcelona.  Now,  we  could  do  with 
half-a-dozen  virgins." 

"Virgins?"  asked  Tansy,  leering  filthily. 
"  And  what  strange  fowl  may  they  be?  " 

"  Well,  the  Cruchot  girls  are  virgins.  Marie 
and  Alys.  I've  had  them  at  the  top  of  my  list 
for  three  years.  They're  worth  six  thousand 
drachmae  apiece.  From  Pedro's  report  here,  the 
fire  should  reach  their  house  at  a  quarter  to  one." 

11  They'll  have  skedaddled  by  now,"  said  Tansy, 
"  it's  just  on  midnight." 

"  They  were  at  home  an  hour  ago !  "  exclaimed 
Adolph. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say  to  getting  these  two 
to-night  and  leaving  the  second-rate  stuff  till 
to-morrow?  " 

Adolph  nodded. 

"  We'd  better  take  Mrs.  Knumf  along  with  us." 

He  rang  a  bell.  Presently  a  male  servant 
entered. 

"  Tell  Mrs.  Knumf  I  want  her.  She  must  put 
on  her  outdoor  things,"  said  Adolph. 

He  dismissed  the  man  with  a  motion  of  his 
flawless  hand. 

"  Another   drink,"   suggested  Tansy. 

"  I've  had  enough." 
148 


LOOT 

"Share  a  bottle  of  champagne  with  me;  this 
is  a  night  of  nights.  Besides,  we  want  priming. 
Those  Cruchot  girls  will  require  a  hell  of  a  lot 
of  managing.  You  see!  If  the  elder  one  sus- 
pects anything,  she'll  fight  like  a  demon." 

He  opened  a  bottle  of  champagne  and  filled 
two  glasses.  They  drank.  Tansy  sat  leering 
and  perspiring.  Soon  the  door  opened  and  in 
walked  a  woman  of  incredible  and  revolting 
respectability.  She  was  dressed  in  black. 

"Ah!  Mrs.  Knumf,"  said  Adolph.  "Sit 
down.  Have  some  wine.  Now,  you  know  the 
Cruchot  girls,  don't  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  At  least,  by  sight,"  said  Mrs. 
Knumf,  sipping  her  wine  genteelly,  and  simpering. 
"  Well,  Tansy  and  I  are  after  them.  They're 
still  in  their  flat.  In  half-an-hour  or  so  the  fire 
will  be  upon  them.  We  must  let  them  nearly  get 
caught,  and  then  we'll  rescue  them.  It  should 
be  simple  enough.  We  will  take  the  carriage. 
They  will  come  back  here  with  you.  This  is 
your  private  house:  it  is  the  headquarters  of  the 
Sisters  of  Mercy  of  the  Orient:  it  is  a  branch  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  League:  it  is  anything  you 
like  to  call  it.  You  understand?  Well,  then, 
come  along." 

Mrs.  Knumf  eagerly  swallowed  the  remainder 
of  her  champagne  and  rose.  She  composed  her 
face  and  began  to  fiddle  with  a  pair  of  black 
gloves.  She  coughed  behind  a  delicate  hand. 

They  passed  into  the  street  and  entered  a 
carriage.  Even  here,  near  the  quay,  they  could 
hear  the  explosive  noises  that  the  hundred-acre 

149 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

furnace  made.  A  vast  belt  of  smoke  blotted  out 
half  the  stars.  Millions  of  sparks  were  jerked 
into,  and  quenched  by,  the  smoke,  like  water 
frantically  forced  through  a  hose-pipe. 

They  had  but  seven  or  eight  hundred  yards  to 
go;  the  streets  were  crowded  and  they  could 
proceed  only  at  a  snail's  pace.  So  intense  was 
the  light  and  so  black  the  shadows  that  the 
streets  and  buildings  looked  grotesquely  unreal. 
Almost  everybody  was  shouting  wildly.  Many 
carried  open  bottles:  their  eyes  were  wide  and 
glittering.  An  old  man  sat  in  the  gutter  laughing 
horribly  and  shouting  indecencies  to  people  as 
they  passed.  Some  of  the  smaller  shops  had 
been  broken  open,  and  looting  proceeded  apace. 

The  fire  strode  about  the  city  like  a  giant. 
It  littered  young  pythons  of  fire  that  glided  sub- 
terraneously  hither  and  thither  and  set  a  red 
doom  on  old  wooden  warehouses  and  shops. 
It  stretched  quivering  tongues  of  flame  across 
the  streets  and  knit  up  one  quarter  of  the  town 
with  another.  It  triumphed  scarletly  in  the 
night  and,  pushing  violently  against  lofty  walls 
of  brick  and  stone,  sent  them  rattling  to  the 
ground. 

"  It  is  a  good  night  for  everyone  except  the 
insurance  companies,"  said  Mrs.  Knumf,  com- 
placently. 

But  when  they  stepped  from  the  carriage  on 
to  the  road,  a  gust  of  hot  air  carried  to  them  the 
brain-sickening  smell  of  burnt  flesh. 

"  A  good  many  people   will  be   missing   to- 
morrow," remarked  Tansy. 
150 


LOOT 

"  I  suppose  Hell's  a  bit  like  this,"  was  all  that 
Adolph  found  to  say. 


Half-an-hour  later  the  two  girls  were  escorted 
by  Mrs.  Knumf  to  the  discreet,  private  entrance 
to  the  brothel.  They  had  been  rescued  with  the 
utmost  difficulty,  and  both  of  them  were  now 
shaken  and  a  little  distraught. 

"  You  would  like  to  rest,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs. 
Knumf,  leading  the  way  to  a  double-bedded 
room. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Marie,  looking  at 
her  a  little  distrustfully.  Then  she  turned  to 
her  sister  who  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  one  of 
the  beds,  trembling  a  little. 

"  Undress  yourself,  dear,"  she  said,  "  we  will 
stay  here  until  the  morning." 

"You  will  have  some  refreshment  first?" 
asked  Mrs.  Knumf. 

But  Marie  refused,  and  the  woman,  walking 
quickly  to  the  door,  vanished.  Almost  im- 
mediately, through  a  second  door  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  room,  Adolph  and  Tansy 
entered. 

;<  Well,  ladies,"  said  Adolph,  looking  keenly  at 
Marie,  "  it  was  a  narrow  escape,  wasn't  it?" 

'Yes,"  answered  Marie,  impulsively;  "we 
owe  you  our  lives.  We  thank  you  from  the 
bottom  of  our  hearts." 

She  moved  over  towards  Alys  as  though  to 
protect  her. 

Adolph  suddenly  lurched  forward. 

151 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Well,  you're  pretty  well  beat,  I  should  think," 
he  said;  "  what  about  a  bottle  of  wine?" 

"Oh,  no!  Indeed,  no!"  protested  Marie, 
standing  by  Alys'  side,  and  placing  a  hand  upon 
her  shoulder.  '  We  only  want  to  be  left  in 
peace." 

"  Oh !  but  you  must !  "  said  Adolph.  "  Mustn't 
they,  Tansy?  " 

"  Of  course  they  musht,"  said  Tansy,  eagerly. 
"  Ring  for  wine.  Champagne's  the  stuff:  we've 
plenty  of  it." 

Marie  suddenly  made  up  her  mind. 

"  My  sister  is  ill  —  can't  you  see  she  is?  I  beg 
you  to  leave  us.  You  have  been  very  good  to 
us:  we  are  both  grateful  to  you:  do  not  spoil 
everything  by  thrusting  upon  us  further  kind- 
ness that  .  .  .  that  is  not  to  be  endured." 

"  She's  right,"  said  Tansy,  with  drunken  con- 
viction, "  absholutely  right.  What  did  I  say? 
'  Leave  'em  a  bit ' :  thash  what  /  said.  Leave 
'em  to  simmer  down.  Now  isn't  that  just  what 
/said?" 

'  Very  well,"  said  Adolph.  "  If  you  want  any- 
thing, just  ring.  Mrs.  Knumf  will  attend  to 
you." 

They  left  the  room  by  the  door  through  which 
they  had  entered,  and  Marie  heard  the  key  turn 
in  the  lock. 

She  turned  to  Alys  bravely. 

"  Get  into  bed,  little  one,"  she  said,  "  I  will 
sleep  with  you." 

Two  gilt  candelabra,  each  holding  half  a  dozen 
lighted  candles,  illuminated  the  room.  Marie  ex- 
152 


LOOT 

amined  the  room  with  apprehensive  eyes.  There 
were  no  windows:  only  bare  walls  faced  her  on 
every  side.  Near  the  ceiling,  on  one  side  of  the 
room,  were  three  ventilators.  She  crept  to  the 
door  through  which  Mrs.  Knumf  had  left  the 
room  and  softly  turned  the  handle :  it  was  locked. 

Without  a  word  and  with  a  faint  smile  she 
approached  Alys. 

"Do  not  take  your  clothes  off,"  she  said; 
"  let  us  sleep  as  we  are." 

Leaving  the  candles  still  burning,  she  lay  down 
by  her  sister.  Folded  in  each  other's  arms,  they 
lay  for  a  long  time  without  sleeping.  Vague 
noises,  whether  in  the  house  or  not  they  could 
not  tell,  disturbed  them  from  time  to  time. 

"  The  fire's  coming  nearer,"  whispered  Alys  at 
length.  "I  know  it  is:  I  feel  it  is.  Marie,  let 
us  go  away  from  here :  we  shall  be  caught." 

She  sat  up  in  bed  and  looked  wildly  round  the 
room. 

"  Lie  down,  little  one,"  said  her  sister,  sooth- 
ingly, as,  rising  on  to  her  knees,  she  placed  her 
arm  round  Alys'  waist.  "  We  can  do  nothing 
till  the  morning.  Lie  down  in  my  arms.  You 
are  quite  safe." 

But  Alys'  instinct  was  right.  The  fire  was 
spreading  with  incredible  rapidity,  and  even  now 
was  within  a  few  yards  of  the  brothel.  The 
vague  noises  grew  louder  and  more  sinister. 

Both  the  girls  were  in  that  condition  which  is 
neither  sleep  nor  wakefulness  when  one  of  the 
doors  quietly  opened  and  Adolph  and  Tansy 
entered.  The  former,  after  rapidly  glancing  at 

153 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

both  the  beds,  locked  the  door,  pocketed  the  key, 
went  to  the  nearest  candelabrum  and  extin- 
guished all  the  candles  it  contained. 

Marie,  holding  her  sister's  hand,  slipped  out  of 
bed. 

"  Leave  those  other  candles  alone,"  she  com- 
manded. 

"  We  have  come  for  our  reward,"  said  Adolph, 
thickly. 

Tansy  seated  himself  on  the  table  and  made 
himself  steady  by  placing  his  hands  on  the  table 
on  either  side  of  him;  even  with  this  support 
he  swayed  a  little.  Alys  had  also  risen  from  the 
bed;  she  now  stood  by  her  sister's  side. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  asked  Marie. 

"Well,  aren't  you  going  to  rest?"  asked 
Adolph.  "  Let  me  help  you  to  undress." 

But  instead  of  approaching  Marie,  he  lurched 
towards  the  younger  sister  and  placed  a  cruel, 
beautiful  hand  upon  her  arm.  Alys  winced  as 
though  her  head  had  been  struck  with  a  whip. 
For  a  moment,  Marie  hesitated:  then  her  fist 
shot  out  and  caught  Adolph  between  the  eyes. 
He  staggered  and  fell,  but  on  the  instant  rose  to 
his  feet. 

"  Come  on,  Tansy,"  he  called,  mad  with  drink 
and  lust;  "  it's  going  to  be  a  fight  —  it's  got  to 
be  one." 

Tansy,  abandoning  the  support  of  the  table, 
rushed  blindly  on  to  the  two  girls,   his  bestial 
face   alive   with   cruelty.     Alys,    sick   and   faint 
with  horror,  fell  to  the  floor. 
154 


LOOT 

"  She's  mine !  "  shouted  Adolph,  dropping  on 
his  knees  by  her  side  and  bending  over  her. 

"Let  her  alone!  Let  her  alone!"  shouted 
Marie,  ceasing  to  struggle  with  Tansy  in  whose 
ape-like  arms  she  was  imprisoned.  "  Take  me  — 
both  of  you.  Do  what  you  like  with  me  —  only 
leave  her  untouched." 

But  Adolph  answered  her  with  an  insane, 
triumphant  laugh. 

'  You  belong  to  Tansy,"  he  said,  and  raising 
Alys  from  the  floor,  he  carried  her  to  one  of  the 
beds. 

A  great  accession  of  strength  seemed  to  flow 
through  Marie's  body  and  limbs  from  her  brain; 
her  excitement  and  terror  were  inexhaustible 
sources  of  energy.  With  a  superhuman  effort, 
she  released  herself  from  Tansy's  grasp,  and 
rushed  like  a  flame  across  the  room  to  the  bed 
on  which  Alys,  only  half-conscious,  was  now 
stretched.  Throwing  herself  upon  Adolph  from 
behind,  she  put  her  long  fingers  about  his  throat, 
and  it  appeared  to  her  as  though  her  will  to 
destroy  pumped  wave  after  wave  of  power  along 
her  shoulders,  down  her  arms,  and  into  her 
fingers,  and  made  them  stronger  than  steel. 
The  man,  half  turning,  struck  her  several  blows 
upon  her  face;  but  she  felt  nothing.  Tansy,  in 
attempting  to  pursue  her,  had  stumbled  over  a 
chair,  crushing  his  head  against  a  corner  of  the 
table.  He  now  lay  on  the  floor,  moaning. 

It  was  while  Marie's  fingers  were  still  about 
Adolph's  throat  that  she  became  conscious  of  dull 

155 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

explosive  sounds  immediately  outside  one  of  the 
doors.  At  the  same  moment  some  one  began  to 
attempt  to  force  an  entrance  through  the  other 
door.  A  voice  shouted  excitedly,  warningly. 
But  Marie  still  clung  to  her  victim  until  all  the 
strength  left  his  limbs  and  he  fell  to  the  floor. 
A  key  rolled  out  of  one  of  his  pockets.  She  tried 
to  pick  it  up,  but  a  sudden  faintness  overcame 
her,  and  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  unable  to 
move,  her  head  light  and  empty,  her  legs  trem- 
bling with  the  utmost  violence. 

As  one  who  dreams,  she  heard  a  great  blow 
upon  the  door  from  beyond  which  the  strange 
explosive  noises  had  been  coming,  and  with  un- 
believing eyes  she  saw  the  door  fall  inwards, 
torn  from  its  hinges  by  a  great  beam  that  had 
fallen  against  it.  An  inexhaustible  cloud  of  black 
smoke  rushed  into  the  room,  almost  suffocating 
her;  with  the  smoke  came  a  wave  of  heat  and 
the  noisy  crackle  of  burning  wood.  The  excited 
warning  voice  at  the  second  door  had  ceased  to 
shout. 

All  Marie's  senses  were  incredulous  of  her  ap- 
proaching doom.  She  gazed  on  her  surroundings 
with  the  detachment  of  an  onlooker  who  was  not 
directly  affected  by  those  surroundings.  She 
said  to  herself:  "  If  Alys  and  I  don't  escape  soon 
—  now  —  we  shall  be  burned  alive."  But  still 
she  did  not  move.  She  could  not.  She  tried  to 
lift  her  arm,  but  it  remained  inert  on  the  bed. 
She  attempted  to  speak  to  her  sister,  but  no 
sound  came  from  her  lips.  .  .  . 

The  fire  came  roaring  down  the  passage  and 
156 


LOOT 

entered  the  room.  It  was  so  hot  that  Marie  felt 
her  skin  was  being  scorched.  The  horror  of  dying 
in  flames  seemed  to  her  much  less  dreadful  than 
the  horror  from  which  she  had  just  escaped. 
Yet  it  would  now  be  a  comparatively  easy  matter 
to  get  away  if  only  she  could  move.  Her  heart 
was  beating  violently,  and  her  breath  came  and 
went  most  stormily.  With  a  supreme  effort  she 
gathered  all  the  forces  of  her  mind  together  and 
concentrated  them,  willing  herself  to  move;  in 
response  to  this  effort,  her  body  rose  from  the 
bed  and  began  to  obey  her  wishes.  Her  hand 
picked  up  the  key  from  the  floor,  her  arms  folded 
themselves  about  her  sister  and  half-dragged, 
half-carried  her  to  the  second  door.  She  fitted 
the  key  into  the  lock  and  turned  it.  In  a  second 
the  door  was  open,  and  she  and  her  sister  were 
in  the  passage. 

The  door  banged  to  after  them,  imprisoning 
the  two  half-conscious  evil  men. 

With  many  intervals  for  rest,  Marie  carried 
her  sister  to  the  end  of  the  passage  and  out  into 
the  open  air.  The  brothel  was  almost  surrounded 
by  fire:  another  five  minutes,  and  she  would 
have  been  too  late.  As  she  emerged  into  the 
street  and  looked  around  her,  she  saw  it  was 
deserted.  No  one  in  Salonika  was  interested  in 
the  burning  of  a  brothel  when  great  hotels,  huge 
warehouses,  and  fine  palaces  were  being  destroyed. 
And  degraded  women  are  but  poor  loot  when 
compared  with  jewels  and  drink. 

As  for  Adolph  and  Tansy.  .  .  . 


157 


HOW    IT    GREW 


To 

T.  Michael  Pope 


I  SUPPOSE  that,  after  all,  I  am  at  heart  a 
good  deal  of  a  snob,  for  I  remember  taking 
enormous  pleasure  in  being  seen  in  Captain 
Porritt's  company  as  we  sauntered  by  British 
Headquarters,  and  passed  along  by  the  side  of 
the  quay  until  we  reached  the  Cafe  Roma.  For 
Porritt  was  most  decidedly  a  notability  in 
Salonika.  He  would  have  attracted  attention 
anywhere.  He  was  dark  and  sudden,  like  a 
Spaniard.  He  had  an  air  of  distinction,  even  of 
disdain,  and  though  his  face  was  peculiarly 
animated,  it  never  revealed  anything.  He  looked 
what  he  was;  an  eager  young  aristocrat,  ab- 
sorbed in  and  hugely  entertained  by  his  sur- 
roundings. Every  part  of  him  ha3  intuition: 
his  hands  knew. 

Now,  I  must  explain  that  Porritt  had  been  in 
some  little  trouble.  A  lady,  I  think;  certainly 
not  drink.  She  was  somebody  else's  wife,  and 
Somebody  Else  happened  to  be  a  millionaire 
merchant.  So  for  three  weeks  Salonika  had  been 
closed  to  Porritt,  and  to-day  was  the  first  day 
of  the  ban's  lifting. 

"  I'd  better  go  slow  the  first  day,  Old  Thing," 
he  said;  "we'll  go  to  the  Roma  instead  of  the 
White  Tower,  and  after  lunch,  if  that  little  room's 
empty,  you  shall  play  Brahms  to  me  —  especially 
the  Little  Valse." 

We  mounted  the  stone  stairway  that  takes  you 
so  unexpectedly  to  the  restaurant.  As  soon  as 
the  manager  saw  Porritt  he  came  fussing  towards 
us, 

161 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

• 

"Ah,  monsieur!"  he  exclaimed,  delightedly; 
"you  once  more!  Are  you  well?  Yes?" 

"  Excessively.     But  how  crowded  you  are !  " 

The  manager  gazed  around  at  his  cosmo- 
politan clients,  and  smiled  reassuringly. 

"  There,  in  the  corner  —  a  table  for  two. 
True,  it  is  engaged  for  somebody  else,  but  you 
shall  have  it." 

He  tangled  fatly  through  the  room,  and,  when 
at  the  table,  turned  about  and  smiled. 

We  sat  down,  and  our  guide  handed  a  wine 
list  to  Porritt. 

"  It  is  some  weeks  since  you  were  in  Salonika?  " 
he  suggested,  rather  than  asked. 

"  Yes ;  three.  Very  busy  up-country.  Very 
busy  ...  ve  ...  ry  ...  bu  ...  sy  ..."  Porritt's 
eyes  were  among  the  champagnes. 

"Ah:  Indeed!  Something  important  then?" 
(He  had  not  heard  of  Somebody  Else's  wife.) 

Porritt  looked  up  and  winked  knowingly. 
"  Rather!  You  wait  and  see."  He  lowered  his 
voice,  adding,  confidentially:  "There's  a  move 


on." 


"Ah!     The  Big  Push!" 

His  eyebrows  shaped  themselves  into  a  ques- 
tion. 

Porritt  nodded  gravely  and  impressively. 

"  The  Big  Push!  The  Big  Push!  "  breathed 
the  manager  once  more. 

He  murmured  the  words  reverently  and  softly, 
and  at  once  increased  in  stature  a  couple  of 
inches,  thus  falsifying  the  spirit,  if  not  the  letter, 
162 


HOW     IT     GREW 

of  the  Scriptural   axiom.     He  was  one  of  the 
Few  who  Knew.     He  was  a  personality. 

He  tangoed  away  for  a  bottle  of  Veuve  Cliquot. 
Porritt  grinned. 

'You    watch!  "he    said.     "It'll    spread    as 
quickly  as  a  scandal  in  a  cathedral  city." 

And,  really,  the  effect  of  this  purely  imaginary 
piece  of  news,  deposited  in  the  bosom  of  the 
manager,  was  electrical.  He  passed  from  table 
to  table,  and  dropped  a  bomb  on  each.  In  five 
minutes  the  restaurant  was  seething  with  ex- 
citement. 

"  The  Great  Push  at  last  !  ...  In  France  as 
well,  no  doubt.  .  .  .  Every  front.  .  .  .  Yes,  the 
Great  Push.  I  always  said  it  would  begin  in 
May." 

At  one  table  the  manager  lingered  for  some 
little  time.  He  was  talking  with  some  animation 
to  three  journalists,  correspondents  of  French 
newspapers.  Two  of  them  were  busy  writing  in 
note-books.  It  appeared  that  the  manager  had 
no  lack  of  news  to  impart:  he  spread  out  his 
plump  hands,  lifted  his  shoulders,  and  wrinkled 
his  brows.  And  then  he  looked  furtively  to- 
wards us,  and  whispered  something  behind  his 
hand.  The  journalists  also  looked,  half  rose, 
thought  a  second  time,  and  sat  down  again. 

"Damned  funny,  isn't  it?"  said  Porritt. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  rather  in  for  it,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"  Oh,  I'll  soon  dispose  of  them" 

Only  one  table  went  on  smoothly  and  system- 

163 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

atically  with  its  eating.  Seated  at  it  were  two 
Fleet  Street  men,  who  had  just  come  to  Salonika 
to  conduct  The  Balkan  News.  They  had  listened 
to  the  manager,  but  had  remained  unmoved. 
But,  presently,  one  of  them  took  a  slip  of  paper 
from  his  pocket,  wrote  a  few  words,  and  sent 
it  across  to  us  by  a  waiter. 

Porritt  unrolled  the  slip.  On  it  was  written: 
"Is  there  anything  in  it?"  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  then  wrote  underneath :  "  Damfino." 
"  Which,"  said  he  to  me,  "  being  interpreted, 
means:  'I'm  damned  if  I  know.''  And  that 
is  all  the  English  journalists  got;  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  was  all  they  wanted,  and  they  sat  back 
in  their  chairs,  and  watched  the  rumour  grow. 

Extraordinary  our  human  love  of  the  sensa- 
tional! Extraordinary  our  inability  to  pass  on 
a  piece  of  news  without  adding  to  it!  Ex- 
traordinary the  credulity  we  give  to  impossible 
stories  we  desire  to  be  true ! 

"  Let's  have  our  coffee  and  liqueurs  down  at 
Floca's,"  suggested  Porritt.  "  It'll  be  rather 
jolly  to  see  to  what  fantastic  shapes  my  Yarn 
has  grown  down  there." 

Floca's,  of  course,  is  just  underneath  the  Roma, 
but  though  only  a  floor  and  a  ceiling  divide  them, 
they  are  as  different  in  mental  atmosphere  as 
the  gilt-mirrored  lounge  of  the  Cafe  Royal,  and 
the  dining-room  at  Morley's  Hotel. 

The  word  "seethes"  is  banal;  nevertheless, 
Floca's  seethed.  For  the  Yarn  had  grown.  It 
now  had  many  twisted  forms,  each  fashioned 
according  to  the  desires  and  fears  of  the  individual 
164 


HOW    IT    GREW 

gossiper.  Porritt,  the  only  begetter  of  this  dis- 
turbance, leaned  back  with  a  gratified  smile  on 
his  lips. 

"  One  must  amuse  oneself,"  said  he. 

"  Ah !  Porritt !  Porritt !  Little  do  you 
know  the  mischief  you  have  done !  At  this  mo- 
ment the  news  is  on  its  way  to  Athens,  thence 
to  London,  Berlin,  Vienna  —  everywhere.  At 
about  seven  o'clock  this  evening,  just  when  the 
night  editors  are  beginning  to  think  of  dinner, 
it  will  reach  Fleet  Street,  perhaps  by  way  of 
Zurich  or  Amsterdam.  Even  now,  as  I  speak, 
the  world  is  beginning  to  wake  up  to  this  great 
new  event.  Thousands  of  pounds  will  be  spent 
on  cables.  Reputations  will  be  lost.  Perhaps 
Roumania  will  be  induced  to  come  in  at  last. 
Greece  will  stir  uneasily,  the  Kaiser  will  wire 
to  Hindenburg,  the  Stock  Exchange  .  .  ." 

"  Would  it  were  all  true !  "  interrupted  Porritt. 
"  Do  you  know,  Cumberland,  I  have  never  felt 
so  important  in  all  my  life?  Look  over  there!  " 

He  pointed  to  a  neighbouring  table.  At  it 
were  seated  two  men,  both  of  whom  I  knew  well 
by  sight.  One  a  fat,  hairy  Greek  Jew  with  a 
pendulous  jaw,  and  great  bags  under  his  eyes, 
was  a  fabulously  wealthy  financier;  the  other 
his  confidential  clerk.  They  had  been  taken 
unawares  by  the  news,  and  forgot  that  a  dozen 
eyes  were  upon  them.  The  financier  was  white 
and  trembling,  and  time  after  time  he  tried  to 
rise  from  his  chair,  only  to  sink  back  repeatedly 
in  a  condition  of  distressing  exhaustion.  Fear, 
a  devastating  fear,  dwelt  in  his  eyes. 

165 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"What  is  he  afraid  of?"  I  whispered  to 
Porritt. 

"  Only  his  clerk  knows.  But  evidently  he 
thinks  he  is  ruined." 

"  Tell  him!  "  I  urged;  "  tell  him  it's  not  true 
—  that  it's  only  your  invention." 

14  Why  should  I?  If  people  will  speculate  in 
human  lives,  let  them  take  the  consequences.  .  .  . 
And  now,"  added  he,  "  I  must  go  to  the  canteen 
to  get  those  six  cases  of  whiskey.  I've  a  limber 
waiting  for  me  just  off  Piccadilly  Circus." 


It  reached  Fleet  Street  precisely  at  nine. 

"  I  think  we  might  have  a  leader  on  it  —  in 
any  case,  a  short  one,"  said  Hartley,  Editor  of  the 
Trumpet,  that  powerful  organ  of  democracy,  to 
the  night  editor.  "  Tell  Bisham  to  come  along." 

Like  a  lizard,  Bisham  darted  in,  an  unlit  stump 
of  a  cigar  between  his  thin,  intelligent  lips. 

"  Well,  Bish,  the  Big  Push  is  on  at  last.  All 
fronts.  Just  through  on  the  wire.  Waiting  for 
censor's  permish.  No  details.  Let's  have  a 
couple  of  sticks,  in  case.  The  news  about 
Salonika ;  the  wire  itself  —  it  comes  from  Zurich 
—  will  go  in  under  any  circs.  And,  you,  Beale," 
he  added,  turning  to  the  night  news  editor,  "  wire 
Amsterdam,  and  do  the  necessary  with  Paris. 
Now,  trot  along  both  of  you.  I'm  busy." 


1 66 


KATYA'S    WOOING 


To 

Jack  Kahane 


IT  was  in  May,  1912,  that  Katya  Konto- 
rompa  met  cosmopolitan  Guy  Fallon,  and 
decided  to  make  him  fall  in  love  with  her. 
She  was  staying  at  the  Olympos  Hotel,  in 
Salonika,  with  her  mother,  and  Fallon  had  a 
suite  of  rooms  on  the  ground  floor.  He  was 
tall,  dark,  and  vivid;  moreover,  he  was  young; 
best  of  all,  he  was  fabulously  wealthy. 

"  A  week  next  Thursday,"  said  Katya  one 
afternoon  to  her  mother,  as  they  sat  on  the  shaded 
balcony  on  the  first  floor,  "  Guy  Fallon  will 
propose  to  me.  It  will  take  place  in  the  evening 
in  one  of  those  boats." 

She  nodded  towards  a  flotilla  of  little  rowing- 
boats  that  stirred  lazily  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
lazy  waves. 

'Yes?"  inquired  her  mother,  who  sat  in  a 
low  chair  looking  benevolently  at  the  world  that 
God  had  made  specially  for  her. 

"  And  though  I  shall  be  a  little  timid  at  first," 
continued  Katya,  "  I  shall  say  yes  as  soon  as  he 
has  kissed  me  passionately  on  the  mouth.  But 
not  until.  I  think  he  would  kiss  rather  well, 
don't  you?" 

"  I  think  he  would  be  thorough,  dear.  .  .  . 
But  we  musn't  talk  like  this.  I  never  used 
even  to  think  like  it  till  you  came  home  from 
Brussels." 

''  Would  you  like  Guy  for  a  son-in-law, 
mamma  ?  " 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs.  Kontorompa  was 
fascinated  by  Fallon  almost  as  much  as  her 

169 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

daughter  was,  and  it  was  with  a  wholly  sensuous 
feeling  that  she  closed  her  lids  and  said: 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  should  —  very  much." 

"  But  the  kind  of  kisses  he  would  bestow  upon 
you,  mamma,  would  be  very  different  from  those 
I  should  get,"  said  Katya,  mischievously. 

But  though  Fallon  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  two 
ladies  during  the  next  few  days,  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  manner  that  made  Mrs.  Kontorompa 
suspect  he  had  no  intention  of  marrying  her 
daughter.  He  was  in  love  with  her  —  yes ;  but 
it  was  not  quite  the  kind  of  love  that  leads  to 
marriage.  Rather  was  it  the  kind  of  hot,  uneasy 
passion  that  persecutes  a  man  until  he  has  gained 
his  desire,  when  it  shrinks  and  dies  like  an  orchid 
in  a  night  of  frost.  But  Katya,  of  course,  was 
extraordinarily  clever:  ignobly  so.  She  was 
directing  the  affair  with  elaborate  carefulness, 
confident  that  in  the  end  she  would  trap  this 
bright  tiger  of  a  man  in  her  net  of  conspiracies. 

Though  living  in  the  same  hotel,  Fallon  wrote 
to  her  twice  every  day.  Sitting  up  in  bed  in 
his  yellow  pyjamas  each  night,  he  wrote  just 
before  he  slept,  and  the  note  was  delivered  by  his 
valet  to  Katya's  maid  at  eight  o'clock  every 
morning.  And  just  before  dinner  in  the  evening 
he  also  wrote,  and  this  letter  he  himself  handed 
to  Katya  as  they  said  good  night.  Fallon  knew 
how  to  write.  He  had  a  habit  of  intoxicating 
himself  with  words,  and  though  each  letter  said: 
"  I  love  you !  I  want  you !  "  he  rescued  himself 
from  monotony  and  her  from  boredom,  by  saying 
the  same  thing  in  a  hundred  different  ways. 
170 


KATYA'S    WOOING 

But  he  was  never  tender,  and  Mrs.  Kontorompa, 
who  eagerly  read  the  letters  Katya  passed  on  to 
her,  was  driven  on  one  occasion  to  remark: 

"  It  is  not  marriage-love.  Your  father  has 
never  loved  me  like  that!" 

"Poor  mamma!"  murmured  Katya;  "poor 
mamma!  But  don't  you  wish  he  had?" 

Fallon  was  with  the  Kontorompas  almost 
every  hour  of  every  day.  In  the  afternoons, 
when  Mrs.  Kontorompa  slept,  the  two  lovers 
played  pianoforte  duets  in  the  big,  deserted 
lounge.  Fallon  was  a  masterful  pianist,  and  he 
played  in  a  manner  that  suggested  intense  hunger 
of  the  soul.  In  these  hours  he  had  no  courtesy, 
and  when  she  bungled  a  passage  he  would  scowl 
at  her  and  call  her  a  little  fool.  And  at  this  she 
would  laugh  and  play  carelessly  in  order  to  taste 
his  anger  once  again.  .  .  . 

'  To-day  is  Thursday,"  announced  Katya,  one 
morning,  as  she  and  her  mother  breakfasted  alone 
in  their  room. 

"  So  it  is,"  agreed  her  mother,  without  con- 
viction. 

"  But  I  mean  it's  the  Thursday.  This  evening 
Guy  will  ask  me  to  marry  him.  After  dinner  he 
and  I  will  walk  to  the  White  Tower.  There  we 
shall  get  a  boat.  Guy  will  row.  There  will  be  a 
moon." 

She  spoke  as  though  she  had  arranged  for  the 
moon  to  be  there. 

"  Do  take  care  of  yourself,  dear.  Mr.  Fallon 
is  so  dark  and  so  ...  so  impulsive.  You  know 
what  I  mean." 

171 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

'  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean,  mamma ;  but 
those  little  rowing-boats  are  quite  safe  in  more 
senses  than  one." 

And  because  she  was  so  anxious  for  the  evening 
to  come,  Katya  found  the  bright  hours  of  the  day 
tepid  and  slow.  She  was  very  quiet  and  sub- 
dued in  the  afternoon,  when  Fallon  found  her  in 
the  empty  lounge. 

"  Come  and  play !  "  he  commanded. 

"  I  feel  languid  and  lazy,  like  a  cat  in  the  sun," 
she  said;  "besides,  I'm  reading." 

"  Very  well  —  we'll  play  the  Petite  Suite  of 
Debussy's  and  some  other  tame  stuff.  Let's 
sentimentalize  together." 

"  Oh,  but  you'd  find  out  too  much  about  me. 
We  should  get  too  close  to  each  other  in  that  soft, 
melting  music." 

"  Is  it  possible  for  us  to  get  too  close  to  each 
other  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  laugh  that  seemed  to 
be  half  a  sneer. 

She  rose,  and  together  they  walked  to  the 
piano. 

Only  those  who  have  played  in  concerted 
music  know  how  easy  it  is  for  two  souls  to 
mingle  in  sound.  They  enjoy  an  intimacy 
which  no  passionate  avowals,  no  tender  plead- 
ings, and,  indeed,  no  physical  contact  can  pro- 
vide. Debussy  is  never  entirely  innocent:  even 
his  gold-fishes  swim  wantonly  in  their  pool:  and 
the  very  tender  miniatures  of  the  Petite  Suite 
are  decadent  with  faint  exhalations  of  patchouli. 

Fallon  detested  the  casual  promiscuities  of 
secret  lovers  —  the  pressure  of  hands,  the  stolen 
172 


KATYA'S    WOOING 

kisses,  the  entire  vocabulary  of  illicitness.  He 
had  the  fastidiousness  of  the  gourmet,  and  as 
yet  his  body  had  tasted  nothing  of  Katya's  de- 
lights, save  the  sharp  thrill  that  eyes  can  com- 
municate, and  the  peculiar,  ghostly,  but  sensuous 
intimacy  supplied  by  music. 


Katya's  moon  was  in  its  appointed  place  as  the 
two  lovers  silently  descended  the  quay  at  the 
White  Tower  and  embarked  in  their  little  boat. 
Guy  rowed  out  into  the  bay.  There  was  no 
breathing  in  the  air,  no  ripple  on  the  sea.  The 
stars  made  magic  in  the  sky,  and  conspired  with 
the  moon  to  create  a  feeling  of  far-off  voluptuous- 
ness. 

Fallon  rowed  lazily  until  they  were  a  mile  or 
so  from  the  town,  which  was  visible  as  a  vast 
congeries  of  lights  —  chains  of  lights,  terraces  of 
lights,  huge  constellations  poised  in  the  air, 
lonely  points  of  flame  burning  in  solitary 
places. 

"  Like  a  huge  window  full  of  jewels,"  said 
Katya. 

The  tens  of  thousands  of  lights  were  reflected 
in  the  sea  as  clearly  as  a  face  is  reflected  in  a 
mirror. 

"Which  is  the  more  real?"  asked  Fallon; 
"  the  city's  illumination  or  the  sea's  version 
of  it?" 

"  The  water  is  quite  warm,"  said  Katya,  laying 
a  white  hand  on  the  surface  of  the  indigo  sea. 

"Yes,"    said    Fallon.     "You   could,   if  you 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

wished,  more  easily  plunge  your  hand  into  my 
heart  than  into  that  water." 

"I  know,"  she  said;  "perhaps  some  day  I 
will." 

"  Perhaps  some  day  it  will  be  too  late.  I 
cannot  go  on  loving  you  like  this  —  desperately  — 
for  ever.  Love  can  be  broken  by  its  own 
strength." 

"  You  must  not  threaten  me,"  she  said. 
"Your  attraction  for  me  is  your  strength: 
strong  people  do  not  threaten.  They  do  not 
even  warn." 

4  Then  you  do  love  me?  " 

"  Of  course.     That  is,  if  you  call  it  love." 

"  If  I  lean  forward  I  can  kiss  your  ankle." 

She  laughed. 

"  Humour  must  be  preserved  even  if  pro- 
priety isn't,"  she  said;  "nevertheless,  you  may 
kiss  it." 

She  felt  the  long  warmth  of  his  lips  through 
her  puce-coloured  silk  stockings.  A  hot  wind 
suddenly  came  from  the  south,  stirring  the  sea 
to  life. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  "  you'd  better  row 
back." 

"  We  were  fools  to  come  here,"  he  said. 

"Yes?  ...  Why?     Tell  me." 

But  he  sat  moodily  for  a  minute  without  speak- 
ing. Then  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and  by  the  light  of 
his  match  Katya  saw  the  passion  in  his  eyes. 

4  You're  a  bit  of  a  tiger,"  she  said. 

"  And  you're  much  of  an  iceberg,"  he  retorted. 

"  Passionless,  cold,  serene,"  she  quoted.     "  I 


KATYA'S    WOOING 

wonder  if  I  am.     I've  never  yet  had  the  chance 
of  finding  out." 

But  he  made  no  reply.  His  silence,  his  lack 
of  directness,  the  lazy  contemptuous  manner  in 
which  he  smoked  his  cigarette,  whipped  her  to 
anger. 

"  Let's  go  back,"  she  said,  abruptly. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  with  grimness.  "  I've  got 
you  here." 

"Very  well,"  she  said;  "then  give  me  a 
cigarette." 

He  threw  her  a  case  and  a  box  of  matches. 

Then,  suddenly,  words  came  from  him  in  a 
torrent. 

'  You  confess-you  love  me.  Well,  if  you  do  — 
passion's  what  I  want.  Affection's  nothing  to 
me.  You've  '  never  yet  had  a  chance  of  find- 
ing out.'  Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that? 
You  were  made  to  tempt  men  .  .  .  and  to 
satisfy  them.  Listen,  Katya:  I  love  every  bit 
of  you.  You're  not  cold.  You  could  kiss,  I 
know.  Let  me  row  you  back." 

His  cigarette  gave  a  little  hiss  as  it  hit  the 
water.     He  threw  his  arms  forward,  desperately. 
*  Yes,  let  me  row  you  back,"  he  repeated. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  answered,  "  but  I  can  never 
be  your  mistress.  I'm  not  angry  with  you  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  think  I  should  care  if  you  were?" 
he  interrupted,  violently.  "  Do  you  think  I  care 
a  damn  for  your  anger?  —  or  your  love?  You 
would  like  to  be  cruel  to  me:  /  know:  I  know 
your  sort.  But  I  can  wash  you  from  my  mind 
as  easily  as  the  sea  has  put  out  my  cigarette." 

175 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said;  "you  can't  do  that. 
You  know  you  can't.  Something  of  me  will  be 
with  you  always." 

He  took  the  oars  and  began  to  row.  The  little 
indigo  waves  passed  by  them;  the  feathered  oars 
slid  along  their  crests.  As  each  pull  the  boat 
leapt;  something  of  his  strength  was  imparted 
to  her  body;  she  quivered  in  response. 

At  the  quay  of  the  White  Tower  he  was  rough 
and  insolent. 

"Get  out,  quick!"  he  commanded;  "let's 
finish  this  ridiculous  business  as  speedily  as 
possible." 

She  turned  upon  him  with  an  amused  smile. 

"  You  have  the  most  dreadful  manners  of  any 
man  I  have  ever  met,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
laugh.  "  When  you  are  in  a  temper,  you  are 
about  twelve  years  old." 

He  called  a  gharry,  waited  until  she  had  stepped 
into  it,  and  then  strode  away. 


Mrs.  Kontorompa  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  read- 
ing, when  Katya  opened  her  mother's  bedroom 
door.  She  looked  at  her  daughter  with  a  con- 
tented smile. 

"  Nothing  happened,"  announced  Katya. 
"  He  does  not  want  to  marry  me." 

"  My  poor  child!  Never  mind:  there  were 
weeks  and  weeks  when  I  used  to  think  the  same 
about  your  father.  Men  never  know  their  own 
minds." 

"But  Fallen  shall  know  his,"  said  Katya; 
176 


KATYA'S    WOOING 

"  I'm  as  clever  as  any  man  I've  come  across  yet." 

"  Do  be  careful,  dear.  You  were  careful  to- 
night?" 

'  Very.     He  only  kissed  my  ankle." 
'  Your    ankle! "    exclaimed    her    mother,    in 
amazement;    "whatever    for?     Why   should   he 
want  to  kiss  your  ankle?" 

"Well,"  said  Katya,  laughing,  "I've  got 
rather  a  nice  ankle,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Kontorompa,  who  had  no  ankles  at  all, 
but  merely  calves  terminating  in  feet,  sighed 
anxiously. 

'  Your  father  never  kissed  my  ankles,"  she 
said,  disapprovingly. 

"Ask  him  to!"  urged  Katya,  mischievously; 
"  it's  a  delightful  feeling." 


A  week  later  Fallon,  dressed  in  white  duck, 
knocked  early  one  morning  at  Mrs.  Kontorompa's 
drawing-room  door.  Katya  and  Katya's  mother 
were  to  go  with  him  to  Langaza  to  picnic.  But 
at  the  very  last  moment  Mrs.  Kontorompa,  as 
had  been  arranged  between  her  daughter  and 
herself,  felt  indisposed. 

"  You  will  come  by  yourself,"  said  F?llon. 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Katya. 

The  chauffeur  was  discreet  and  unobservant: 
he  was  paid  a  very  large  salary  for  not  seeing 
things. 

Their  car  was  fitted  with  a  lace  awning,  but  the 
air  was  so  hot  and  dry,  that  before  they  were 
well  over  the  deserted  Lembet  plain  they  were 

177 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

inordinately  thirsty.     So  Fallon  stopped  the  car 
and  opened  a  half-bottle  of  champagne. 

"  I  didn't  bring  champagne  just  because  it's  ex- 
pensive," he  explained,  "  but  because  I  know  you 
like  it.  Look !  —  the  ice  is  half  melted  already." 

"It  will  be  cooler  by  the  lake,"  said  Katya; 
"  there  may  even  be  a  little  breeze.  I  never 
drink  champagne  on  a  hot  day,"  she  added, 
"  without  longing  to  have  a  bath  in  it.  It  would 
tingle  so  deliciously,  like  electricity." 

"  Sensualist !  I've  often  noticed  you  love  the 
sensations  you've  never  experienced." 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,  there  are  so  few  of  them 
left." 

But  Fallon  was  not  interested,  and  he  threw 
the  empty  bottle  on  the  roadside  with  a  gesture 
of  boredom. 

"  Drive  on!  "  he  ordered  the  chauffeur. 

When  a  mile  from  Langaza  Lake,  the  car  was 
drawn  up  by  the  side  of  the  deserted  road,  and 
their  chauffeur  spread  out  their  lunch  under  the 
shade  of  a  little  grove  of  poplars. 

In  silence  they  ate  and  drank.  The  sun-baked 
plain  sent  waves  of  visible  heat  into  the  sky. 
No  birds  sang.  The  bronze  sound  of  a  sheep- 
bell  came  from  afar. 

"  Life  passes,"  said  Katya,  at  length,  "  and 
we  grow  older." 

'  True,"  answered  he,  mockingly.  "  It  is  only 
the  grass  that  never  withers.  It  was  here  ten 
thousand  years  ago,  and  it  is  here  to-day." 

"  But  you  and  1 1  —  how  quickly  age  will  come 
to  us !  "  she  said. 
178 


KATYA'S    WOOING 

"  How  foolish,  then,  to  waste  our  youth!  "  he 
urged.  "  Sometimes  I  feel  angry  at  those  days 
which  slip  by  empty  of  ecstasy.  Waste!  It's 
all  waste !  Waste  of  days,  of  months,  of  years ! 
Just  because  we  refuse  to  take  what  life  offers 
us.  We  do  not  live  for  ever,  and  the  things  that 
taste  sweet  to-day  will  in  a  few  years  be  but 
bitterness  and  ashes." 

He  allowed  his  wine-glass  to  slip  from  his  lax 
fingers  on  to  the  grass. 

"Let  us  walk,"  he  said;  "  I'm  restless." 

So  they  rose  and  walked  slowly  towards  the 
lake. 

"What  is  that  parcel  you  are  carrying?"  he 
asked,  when  they  were  near  the  lake's  border. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  perhaps  I'd  do  some  sketching 
when  we  got  to  the  lake.  We  can  sit  down,  and 
you  may  smoke  while  I  work.  No,  thanks:  I 
can  easily  carry  it  myself." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.     Then : 

"  You  were  talking  about  waste,"  she  said. 

"Was  I?  Yes.  But  it's  a  dreary  subject. 
I  was  lecturing  you,  really,  you  know;  for  you're 
wasting  my  life  as  well  as  your  own.  You're 
destroying  these  days.  It's  just  a  week  since 
you  told  me  you  loved  me." 

"  Yes,  but  I  said  '  if  you  call  it  love.'  To  you 
love  is  one  thing;  to  me,  another." 

"  Why?  What  do  you  imagine  is  my  idea  of 
love?" 

"  Just  appetite  —  the  satisfaction  of  an  appe- 
tite." 

"And  your  idea?" 

179 


"  Service." 

He  laughed  on  a  high  note  of  contempt. 

'  You  deceive  yourself,"  he  said.  "  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  you?  Do  you  think  I  live 
with  my  eyes  shut?  If  you  were  to  confess 
that  your  idea  of  love  is  a  means  of  obtaining 
security  against  life,  I'd  believe  you.  In  other 
words  —  you  like  me  in  my  brutal  moods,  don't 
you?  —  if  I  asked  you  to  marry  me,  you  would 
serve  me  for  what  I  would  give  you  in  return. 
Is  that  what  you  mean  by  service?  " 

'  You  believe,  then,  I  would  accept  your  in- 
vitation if  you  asked  me  to  marry  you?  " 

"  Most  assuredly.  Let's  finish  this  subtle, 
month-old  fight  of  ours,  and  speak  in  plain 
words." 

"  But  we  understand  each  other  so  well  with- 
out plain  words !  "  she  protested. 

"Do  we?  I  wonder.  Tell  me,  then:  why 
don't  I  ask  you  to  marry  me?  " 

"  Because  you  don't  love  me.  Your  body 
merely  aches  for  mine.  You  suffer,  I  know." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  acknowledged;  "but  I  can 
endure  pain.  Most  men  can't:  that  is  why  they 
are  willing  to  incur  the  discomfort  and  long 
penance  of  marriage  —  anything  rather  than  con- 
tinue to  suffer." 

"Then  why  don't  you  go  away?  Why  don't 
you  leave  me  altogether?" 

But  he  did  not  answer. 

"  Is  it,"  she  asked,  "  because  you  still  hope  to 
win  me  without  marriage?" 

He  turned  upon  her  savagely. 
1 80 


KATYA'S    WOOING 

"  Temptress  and  taunter !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  I  know  your  sort.  You  love  to  feel  your 
hideous  power.  You  suck  delight  from  my 
misery." 

He  drew  nearer  to  her  and  seized  one  of  her 
wrists. 

"I  love  you,"  he  whispered;  "isn't  that 
enough?  " 

They  were  in  a  little  pathway  among  the  rushes 
by  the  lake's  side.  Suddenly,  she  wrested  her- 
self away  from  him  and,  raising  her  right  arm, 
threw  the  parcel  she  carried  into  the  lake.  It 
floated  on  the  surface,  and  the  gentle  south  wind 
moved  it  slowly  across  the  water  in  the  direction 
of  Langaza  village,  a  couple  of  miles  away. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  mocking  smile. 

"  Let  us  go  back,"  she  said,  "  for  this  is  merely 
the  waste  of  another  day." 

"  Why  have  you  thrown  your  sketching  things 
away?"  he  asked,  stupidly. 

"  I  haven't.  The  things  I  have  thrown  away 
were  once  yours.  Then  they  became  mine. 
They  will  belong  to  the  person  who  finds  them." 

The  words  came  hysterically,  and  she  trembled 
a  little. 

11  What  are  they?  "he  asked. 

*  Your  letters  to  me.  I  have  finished  with  you. 
This  is  the  end." 

He  began  to  laugh,  but  his  laughter  quickly 
died  in  his  throat. 

"You  fool!"  he  exclaimed;  "you  spiteful 
little  devil!  My  name  is  on  each  of  those 
letters." 

181 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

He  quivered  with  anger,  and  raised  his  fist  as 
though  to  strike. 

"  I  know,"  she  said.  "  That  is  one  of  the 
reasons  why  I  threw  them  away.  It  is  time 
your  folly  was  known  to  others  besides  me." 

She  looked  upon  him  with  malice,  delighting 
in  his  anger.  Then  she  laughed  softly,  taunting 
him. 

"Can't  you  swim?  "  she  asked.  "  See,  it  isn't 
very  far  off." 

But  he  strode  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
motor-car.  She  called  after  him,  gently,  lovingly. 

"Guy!     Guy!" 

He  stopped  and  turned,  his  face  and  attitude 
contemptuous.  Running  up  to  him,  she  threw 
her  arms  about  his  neck  and,  half-sobbing,  half- 
laughing,  stammered: 

"  Guy !  Dear  Guy !  I  was  only  fooling  you. 
They  were  not  your  letters  —  not  one  of  them. 
Your  dearest  letters  I  carry  in  my  breast,  next  to 
my  heart." 

He  pressed  his  face  hard  against  her  neck. 

"  You  little  devil,  you !  Why  do  we  torture 
each  other  like  this?  " 

She  clung  to  him  desperately. 

"  Marry  me !     Marry  me !  "  she  implored. 

"Yes,  I  will:  I'm  damned  if  I  won't.  But, 
I  warn  you  — -  look  out !  We  shall  both  have  a 
hell  of  a  time." 

"  But  there'll  be  a  month  or  two  of  heaven 
first,"  she  said,  and,  opening  his  shirt  at  the  neck, 
she  kissed  him  low  down  on  his  breast. 


182 


JHE     STORM 


To 

Mary  Harrison 


XAVIER  PETROVSKI  was  English  in 
spite  of  his  name,  appearance,  and  his 
temperament. 

"  As  for  his  appearance,"  said  Judith  Lesueur 
to  her  sister,  Marian,  "  well,  it's  too  ravishing  for 
words.  Eyes  that  melt,  my  dear  —  melt  with 
their  own  fire." 

Marian  laughed. 

"  I  never  like  your  little  gods,  your  little  tin 
gods;  your  little  gods  of  flesh  and  blood.  And  I 
particularly  hate  the  melting  variety.  Just  like 
the  butter  you  get  in  the  Cafe  Roma  in  August." 

His  temperament  was  melancholy,  for  he  was 
cursed  with  a  hot,  uneasy  ambition  that  goaded 
him  on  to  work  till  his  body  grew  tired,  his  brain 
stale,  and  his  spirit  dejected.  He  believed  him- 
self to  be  a  musical  composer. 

"I  have  genius:  I  know  I  have  genius,"  he 
said,  over  and  over  again  in  spring  nights  when 
he  lay  in  his  lodging  overlooking  the  sea. 

And  then  he  would  sleep  and  dream,  his  brain 
ravished  by  sumptuous  harmonies,  his  very  flesh 
soothed  by  sound. 

For  a  living  he  played  the  violin  in  the  Orient 
Cafe,  for  he  was  a  member  of  the  Ostrovsky 
Quartet.  From  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
till  midnight  he  played,  whilst  the  loose  men  and 
women  of  Salonika  danced  and  drank  and  ate. 
In  the  mornings  he  composed  music  and  counted 
up  the  money  he  had  saved.  For  Xavier  was 
nothing  if  not  practical.  He  was  not  going  to 
miss  the  reward  of  his  genius  by  foolish  conduct 
or  faulty  management  of  his  affairs.  Already  he 

185 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

had  saved  £800.  Not  a  penny  was  spent  that 
could  by  any  contriving  be  added  to  his  hoard. 
In  a  little  while  he  would  take  his  money  to 
London,  and  then!  Oh,  then  he  would  show 
them!  The  finest  orchestra  in  the  world  should 
play  his  music  and  the  critics  should  praise  it; 
it  should  be  printed  and  sold;  his  name  should 
be  on  the  lips  of  every  man.  Fame :  money :  the 
companionship  of  the  great:  the  smiles  of  women: 
the  intoxication  of  life  lived  to  the  full.  All 
should  be  his.  In  a  little  while.  He  was  sure 
of  it. 

At  least,  sometimes  he  was  sure.  In  his  happy 
moments,  his  moods  of  exaltation.  But  there 
were  black  moods. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  I  have  written  these  in- 
anities?" he  would  sometimes  ask  himself.  "I 
am  a  fool,  sick  with  vanity,  eaten  up  with  ego- 
mania." 

In  one  of  these  unendurable  moods  he  met 
Judith  Lesueur,  the  most  beautiful  and  most 
cultured  demirep  in  all  Salonika. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Lesueur,"  he  exclaimed,  "  do  help 


me." 


;<What  is  it?"  she  asked,  smiling.  "  Has 
someone  been  horrid  to  you?"  (She  always 
treated  him  as  though  he  were  a  child.) 

"No:  but  I'm  terribly  depressed:  my  music 
won't  come  right.  I  looked  at  my  String 
Serenade  this  morning,  and  it  is  inconceivable 
that  I  should  have  written  such  ridiculous  stuff. 
And  when  I  was  writing  it  I  thought  it  was  so 
splendid." 
186 


THE     STORM 

"  It  probably  1*5  splendid,"  she  said,  sympa- 
thetically; "  everyone  has  moods.  Come  to  the 
Cafe  and  drink  with  me." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  he  protested.  "  This  rotten  feel- 
ing —  I  must  walk  it  off.  Drink  would  only  make 
me  worse." 

But,  instead  of  going  a  long  tramp  as  he  had 
intended,  he  returned  to  his  lodgings,  and  sat 
brooding  at  his  open  window.  His  thoughts 
turned  to  his  dead  father:  he  also  had  been  a 
composer  of  music,  and  he  had  been  one  of  life's 
failures.  He  had  worked  hard  and  very  pa- 
tiently, but  no  one  had  ever  played  anything  he 
had  written. 

Xavier  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  across 
the  room  to  a  big  chest  full  of  MSS.,  all  in  his 
father's  neat  writing.  He  turned  over  page  after 
page  —  symphonies,  overtures,  songs,  string  quar- 
tets. How  like  his  father  this  music  was !  — 
mystical,  tender,  exquisite.  "  Like  the  poems  of 
Rossetti,"  Xavier  murmured  to  himself.  Soon  he 
became  so  absorbed  in  his  father's  work,  that  he 
nearly  lost  consciousness  of  himself.  The  music 
he  was  reading  murmured  and  sang  in  his  ears. 
His  father's  very  spirit  seemed  to  suspire  from 
the  pages.  Almost  could  his  voice  be  heard. 
It  was  as  though  the  soul  of  the  dead  man  was 
brooding  over  his  living  son.  .  .  . 

Some  of  the  music  had  been  written  only  ten 
years  ago:  it  was  very  much  in  advance  of  its  . 
period,  and  perhaps  it  was  for  this  reason  that 
both  publishers  and  conductors  had  disdained  it. 
Xavier's  father  had  lived  in  London  where,  it  is 

187 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

true,  good  music  cannot  for  long  go  unrecognized; 
but  he  had  been  proud  and  almost  vainly  sensi- 
tive, and  the  rejection  of  a  composition  used  to 
throw  him  into  a  condition  of  despair  so  great, 
that  months  would  pass  before  he  could  persuade 
himself  to  give  the  work  another  chance.  His 
sensitive  pride  had  been  his  ruin.  .  .  . 

Xavier,  wrapped  up  in  his  own  work,  had  not 
for  some  years  examined  his  father's  music,  and 
had  never  divined  its  true  quality;  but  now  he 
recognized  its  extraordinary  distinction,  its  pecu- 
liar originality,  its  brooding  power  and  barbed 
eloquence.  Oblivious  of  time,  he  read  on  until 
his  landlady  entered  with  his  lunch. 

"  We  are  going  to  have  a  thunderstorm,"  she 
said,  looking  at  the  copper  sky. 

"  Very  likely,"  he  said,  his  eyes  still  on  the 
music. 

And  while  he  ate  his  frugal  meal,  he  continued 
reading  his  father's  music;  he  absorbed  it  until 
it  was  time  to  go  to  the  Orient  Cafe.  As  he 
walked  slowly  thither,  he  felt  that  during  the 
last  few  hours  his  personality  had  undergone  a 
strange  metamorphosis.  He  was  not  himself: 
something  had  been  added  to  him:  some  luxury, 
a  kind  of  mental  wantonness  —  had  entered  his 
spirit  unawares.  His  mind  was  larger,  his 
imagination  more  rapid  and  higher  in  its  flights. 

There  was  something  ghostly  in  this,  something, 
perhaps,  even  threatening.  But  no  doubt  the 
minatory  feeling  came  from  the  sulphur  sky  that 
hung  so  low,  a  sky  heavy  with  electricity  and 
sulky  with  spleen.  .  .  . 
188 


THE     STORM 

The  dances  he  and  his  comrades  played  that 
afternoon  and  evening  meant  less  than  nothing 
to  him,  for  he  did  not  even  hear  them.  One 
performs  mechanically  the  acts  one  performs 
frequently.  The  music  that  was  in  the  air 
about  him  was  the  music  he  had  read  that 
morning. 

At  midnight,  the  day's  work  over,  he  left  the 
Cafe  and  sought  his  lodging.  There  were  no 
stars.  Thunder  had  begun  to  mutter,  but  as  yet 
no  rain  had  fallen.  Faint  fires  trembled  in  the 
sky.  Xavier  felt  the  excitement  of  something 
important  about  to  happen.  His  brain  teemed 
with  ideas.  As  soon  as  he  got  home,  he  would 
begin  to  compose. 

'  The  Storm !  '  "  he  said,  suddenly,  speaking 
aloud.  "  The  storm  that  never  breaks  —  that's 
an  idea,  and  a  damned  good  one,  too.  The  storm 
that  is  always  threatening  and  never  begins. 
Something  brooding,  something  gathering  itself 
together,  something  couching,  something  licking 
its  chops.  And  nothing  ever  happening." 

He  knitted  his  brows  in  deep  thought,  and  by 
the  time  he  had  reached  his  room,  musical  ideas 
for  his  composition  were  already  filling  his  mind. 

He  sat  down  and  wrote.  Muted  horns  cried 
mysteriously  on  the  paper  before  him  in  discords 
that  were  continually  on  the  point  of  being,  but 
never  were,  resolved.  ...  At  the  end  of  an  hour 
he  read  what  he  had  written;  from  the  very  first 
bar  it  was  good.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he 
kept  his  excitement  under  control.  He  worked 
without  effort,  without  thought,  but  with  deep 

189 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

and  disturbed  feeling.  His  pen  moved  mechani- 
cally, and  he  could  but  wonder  at  its  strange 
activity. 

Just  before  dawn,  he  lay  down  and  fell  asleep. 
At  the  end  of  the  third  hour  of  his  slumber,  he 
awoke  suddenly,  all  his  senses  fresh  and  alert. 
The  sun  was  in  his  room.  Anxiously  he  bounded 
out  of  bed,  and  sat  down  at  his  little  table  near 
the  window,  scanning  his  MS.  with  eager  eyes. 
The  muted  horns  made  magic  music.  Yes  —  it 
was  fine !  Every  note  of  it  was  fine !  How 
mysteriously  yet  significantly  the  strings  stirred! 
How  broodingly  the  wood-wind  kept  suggest- 
ing the  principal  theme  that  was  never  fully 
stated! 

It  was  with  a  trembling  fear  that  he  took  his 
pen  in  hand.  Had  his  inspiration  failed?  Had 
that  mood  gone?  No:  without  effort  he  began 
at  the  point  at  which  he  had  left  off.  Though  it 
was  happy  day  outside,  the  storm  was  still  brew- 
ing on  his  paper.  Little  flickers  of  flame  danced 
on  his  sky's  edge:  a  black  turbulence  was  at  his 
zenith.  .  .  . 

Three  days  later,  his  Symphonic  Poem  was 
finished,  and  he  sought  out  Judith  Lesueur  that 
she  might  share  his  joy. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Lesueur,"  he  said,  bursting  into  her 
flat,  "  do  sympathize  with  me !  " 

14  What  is  it?"  she  asked.  "Has  someone 
been  horrid  to  you?  " 

"  No :  I'm  so  happy  I  can't  remain  alone.  I've 
written  a  wonderful  work:  I  can't  believe  it  is 
I  who  have  written  it.  And  really  —  don't 
190 


THE    STORM 

laugh  at  me !  —  it  just  seemed  to  me  all  the  time 
that  somebody  else  was  writing  it  for  me." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad.  If  you  weren't  so  terribly 
virtuous,  I  would  kiss  you.  " 

Involuntarily,  he  moved  a  pace  or  two  away 
from  her.  She  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  dear  friend!  "  She  smiled 
on  him.  "  If  you  are  happy,  I  am  also.  And 
now,  I  suppose,  you'll  be  going  to  London  and  I 
shall  see  you  no  more.  Poor  Judith !  " 

'  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  shall  be  going  soon. 
It  describes  a  storm  —  the  gathering  of  a  storm: 
clouds  coming  out  of  the  vacant  blue  and  massing 
together:  yellow,  treacherous  vapours  emerging 
from  God  knows  where :  enmity  in  the  air.  But 
the  storm  never  breaks.  All  the  thick,  heavy 
passions  of  nature  mingle  until  they  become 
clogged.  And  then  the  music  stops,  choked  by 
its  own  congestion." 

Judith  did  not  understand  him:  he  was  just 
a  little  mad,  she  thought. 

"  I  do  hope  it  will  be  a  success,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  sure  it  will.  But  I  wish  I  was  coming  to 
London  with  you  to  hear  it." 

He  glanced  at  her  rather  shyly. 

"  Do  you?  "  he  asked.     "  Do  you,  really?  " 
'  Why,  of  course  I  do.     I  want  to  see  your 
success:  I  want  to  be  with  you  in  the  midst  of 
it." 

"  Perhaps,  some  day  .  .  ."  he  said,  vaguely, 
blushing  a  little.  "Well,  good-bye,"  he  added, 
"  I  must  be  off  to  the  Cafe  now." 


191 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

London  was  much  kinder  than  Xavier  Petrov- 
ski  had  anticipated,  for  he  had  not  reflected  that 
all  cities,  all  people,  are  kind  to  men  who  have 
money  to  spend.  He  came  with  letters  of  intro- 
duction, and  was  soon  on  friendly  terms  with 
many  musicians,  critics,  and  people  of  social 
influence.  A  German  firm  of  publishers  had 
already  accepted  a  volume  of  his  songs,  and  the 
wealthy  amateur,  Countess  Idionowsky,  had 
arranged  for  an  evening  of  his  music  to  be  given 
at  her  house  in  Portman  Square.  His  timid 
manner,  his  air  of  distinction,  and  the  "  melting  " 
eyes,  which  Judith  had  tried  to  describe  to  her 
sister,  made  him  very  popular  with  women,  and 
he  received  more  invitations  than  he  could 
accept. 

More  satisfactory  than  anything  else,  he  had 
been  able  to  secure  Queen's  Hall  for  an  evening 
in  the  first  week  in  June,  and  Marcel  Xystobam 
was  to  conduct  for  him,  and  the  great  soprano, 
Alice  Gardner,  was  to  sing  a  group  of  his  songs 
and  a  scene  from  his  opera  Dido. 

On  this  concert,  and  in  advertising  it,  he  had 
spent  a  large  portion  of  his  hoard.  All  his  hopes 
for  the  future  were  centered  on  this  event.  If  it 
failed,  his  life  would  be  broken,  his  ambition 
killed.  But  the  thought  of  failure  rarely  entered 
his  mind,  so  full  were  his  days  of  happiness,  so 
continuous  was  the  flow  of  praise  he  received  from 
his  new  friends. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  his  orches- 
tral concert,  a  stranger  called  to  see  Xavier  at 
his  hotel.  He  was  a  tall  ascetic-looking  man, 
192 


THE     STORM 

fashionably  dressed,  courteous,  even  a  little 
deferential. 

"  My  name  is  Shaw  —  Geoffrey  Shaw,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  have  called  to  see  you  because  I  knew 
your  father  well:  indeed,  he  was  a  dear  friend  of 
mine." 

Xavier,  who  had  been  writing  at  a  desk  when 
the  stranger  entered,  rose  excitedly  to  his  feet. 

'  You  knew  my  father?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes.  I  was  with  him  when  he  died.  In 
those  days  I  was  not  so  ...  so  well-circum- 
stanced as  I  am  now,  or  perhaps  he  would  not 
have  died  when  he  did.  I  was  one  of  those  who 
had  faith  in  him  —  in  his  genius." 

"  Tell  me  about  him.  You  know,  I  was  only 
fifteen  when  he  died,  and  during  the  last  two 
years  of  his  life  I  never  saw  him  at  all." 

So  the  stranger  told  Xavier  of  his  father's  last 
years  —  of  his  patient  courage,  his  extraordinary 
capacity  for  work,  his  sensitiveness. 

"  He  really  had  very  great  powers,"  Shaw 
continued,  "  but  the  weakness  in  him  was  that 
he  had  not  sufficient  faith  in  himself.  His 
faith  came  and  went.  A  single  hostile  word 
was  sufficient  to  make  him  suspect  his  own 
genius." 

He  stayed  for  half-an-hour  and  then  rose 
to  go. 

"  I  am  going  to  your  concert  to-morrow,  of 
course,"  he  said;  "perhaps  you  will  come  and 
sup  at  my  flat  when  it  is  over.  My  place  is  in 
Oxford  Street,  less  than  five  minutes'  walk  from 
Queen's  Hall," 

193 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 
"  I  shall  be  delighted." 


There  are  few  experiences  so  salutary,  and  yet 
at  the  same  time  so  galling,  as  that  undergone 
by  an  inexperienced  composer  when  he  listens 
to  the  first  performance  of  his  orchestral  works. 
His  music  may  look  extraordinarily  lucid  on 
paper,  but  in  actual  performance  all  kinds  of 
elaborately  calculated  effects  fail  to  "  come  off  " : 
they  are  destroyed  by  lack  of  balance  between 
the  different  sections  of  the  orchestra.  The  ideas 
are  there,  but  they  are  not  heard. 

At  the  long  rehearsal  of  his  music,  Xavier 
suffered  deeply.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  com- 
positions were  like  exquisite  paintings  at  which 
handfuls  of  mud  had  been  thrown:  the  tender 
sound  would  suddenly  become  meaningless  noise : 
muddy  patches  here  and  there  stopped  and 
choked  the  logical  continuity  of  his  work. 

When  he  first  noticed  this,  his  instinct  was  to 
throw  the  blame  on  his  conductor,  Marcel  Xysto- 
bam,  but  two  or  three  minutes'  reflection  dis- 
closed to  him  that  the  fault  was  in  the  writing 
itself,  and  not  in  the  manner  of  its  interpretation. 
Only  one  work,  "  The  Storm,"  came  out  in  sound 
precisely  as  he  had  heard  it  in  his  inner  ear;  his 
other  compositions  were  palpably  the  work  of  an 
untried,  though  gifted,  amateur. 


Xavier    Petrovski    sat    writhing    at    his    own 
music. 
194 


THE     STORM 

The  large  audience  was  obviously  bored;  even 
Alice  Gardner's  appearance  did  not  lift  them  out 
of  their  apathy.  During  the  interval  many  left 
the  hall.  The  applause  bestowed  on  each  com- 
position could  only  just  be  heard.  All  the  critics 
were  already  congregated  round  the  refreshment 
bar.  Nothing  but  a  miracle  could  prevent  the 
concert  from  being  the  most  conspicuous  failure 
of  the  season. 

There  was  nothing  from  which  Xavier  could 
derive  consolation.  The  fault  was  his  own.  His 
music  was  the  music  of  a  man  who  had  not 
learned  the  technique  of  his  art;  the  sounds  that 
reached  him  from  the  orchestra  were  not  the 
sounds  that  had  come  to  him  in  the  silence  of  his 
room  in  Salonika ;  through  lack  of  skill  —  through 
want  of  experience  —  he  had  failed  to  record 
what  he  had  heard. 

After  what  to  the  composer  seemed  hours  of 
misery,  the  last  work  was  reached.  He  knew 
well  that  if  the  audience  were  in  a  mood  to  listen, 
"  The  Storm "  could  not  fail  of  its  effect.  In 
rehearsal,  it  had  been  peculiarly  impressive.  Not 
a  single  note  was  miscalculated:  it  was  the  work 
of  a  mature  mind:  it  had  all  the  attributes  of 
genius. 

And  to-night,  the  very  first  bars  gripped  the 
tired  and  disappointed  listeners.  They  forgot 
their  disappointment  in  listening  to  this  strange 
disturbing  sound.  Brooding  yet  passionate,  the 
music  filled  the  hall:  it  flickered  like  flame; 
it  rolled,  like  heavy  waters;  it  menaced,  like 
distant,  just-heard  thunder.  It  made  its  listeners 

195 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

believe  that  something  terrible  was  about  to 
happen.  And  when  all  the  black  beauty  of  it 
had  passed  away  without  its  threatened  terrible 
culmination,  the  listeners  felt  an  exquisite  relief 
that  expressed  itself  in  thunderous  applause. 

Not  until  the  conductor  had  signified  with  an 
expressive  gesture  that  the  composer  was  not 
present  and  could  not  therefore  bow  his  acknowl- 
edgments from  the  platform,  did  the  audience 
begin  to  disperse.  .  .  . 

At  the  entrance  of  the  hall  Xavier  Petrovski 
found  his  new  friend,  Geoffrey  Shaw,  waiting  for 
him.  The  meeting  of  the  two  men  was  con- 
strained; it  seemed  almost  as  though  they  were 
enemies  compelled  to  meet  on  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness. They  began  to  walk  towards  Oxford 
Street. 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  had  stayed  in  Salonika,"  said 
Petrovski,  at  length,  "  for  it's  all  been  waste." 

His  companion  tried  to  comfort  him. 

"  You  have  not  yet  had  the  experience  that 
every  composer  needs  before  he  can  become 
successful  —  the  kind  of  experience  that  you  can't 
get  out  there  in  Greece.  You  must  stay  in 
London  —  live  here.  You  would  learn  quickly 
all  that  is  required." 

"But  my  'Storm'  succeeded,  didn't  it?" 

For  a  moment  Shaw  made  no  reply.      Then: 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "that  work  was  a  great 
success." 

"  But  they  tell  me  the  critics  did  not  stop  to 
hear  it.  They  all  left  the  hall  long  before  the 
concert  was  finished.  I  do  not  blame  them,  but 
196 


THE     STORM 

it's  a  pity  they  did  not  hear  my  best  work.  .  .  . 
I  feel  like  a  beginner,  Mr.  Shaw  —  I  have  every- 
thing yet  to  learn.  And  for  some  years  I  have 
been  flattering  myself  that  I  was  a  master  of  my 
art." 

"  Don't  be  too  despondent,  my  dear  fellow. 
You've  got  the  stuff  in  you  all  right:  it  only 
wants  bringing  out  and  putting  into  proper 
shape." 

1  Yes ;  but  the  curious  thing  is  that  my  work, 
*  The  Storm,'  is  absolutely  free  from  all  faults 
of  inexperience.  It  might  almost  have  been 
written  by  another  man." 

They  had  now  reached  Shaw's  flat.  His  host 
unlocked  the  door  and  led  him  to  his  dining-room 
where  supper  was  laid. 

Shaw's  sympathetic  kindness  and,  no  doubt, 
the  wine  also  soon  put  Petrovski  into  a  more 
hopeful  frame  of  mind.  When  they  had  finished 
supper,  Shaw  invited  his  guest  into  his  library. 
The  room  contained  nothing  but  books,  a  desk, 
and  a  couple  of  easy  chairs. 

"  I  have  something  here  I  want  to  show  you," 
he  said,  very  gravely.  "  It  is  a  MS.  of  your 
father's  —  he  gave  it  to  me  a  few  weeks  before  his 
death.  I  happen  to  know  it  is  the  only  copy  in 
existence;  and  I  was  present  when  he  destroyed 
the  preliminary  sketch  on  which  this  composition 
is  founded." 

Taking  a  thin  volume  from  a  cabinet,  he 
opened  it  at  the  first  page  and  placed  it  before 
his  guest. 

At  the  very  first  glance  Petrovski  uttered  an 

197 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

exclamation  of  surprise.  Then,  bending  over  it, 
he  examined  it  hurriedly  and  with  the  utmost 
agitation.  His  hands  trembled  so  violently  that 
he  could  scarcely  turn  over  the  pages. 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed  at  length;  "it's 
1  The  Storm  '  —  note  for  note  —  my  own  work !  " 

He  transferred  his  gaze  from  the  MS.  to  his 
host. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  he  asked;  "in  God's 
name,  what  does  it  mean?" 


198 


THE  MAN  WHO  GAVE  HIS  SOUL 


To 

Walter  H.  Mudie 


DMITRI  passed  his  life  in  doing  good.  In 
that  lay  all  his  happiness.  In  the  whole 
of  Salonika  there  was  no  man  or  woman 
so  vile,  so  incorrigibly  steeped  in  iniquity,  as  to 
fail  to  stir  his  compassion.  All  men  were  his 
brothers:  all  men,  he  sometimes  thought,  were 
himself. 

He  preached  in  the  streets  and  in  the  markets, 
and  this  is  the  gospel  the  young  man  brought  to 
his  hearers. 

u  All  forms  of  consciousness  are  God.  If  the 
trees  are  conscious,  then  they  are  part  of  God. 
If  lions  are  conscious,  they  also  are  God.  The 
more  alive  a  man  is  —  the  more  conscious  he  is  of 
himself  and  his  environment  —  the  more  of  God's 
spirit  does  he  possess.  For  God  is  a  vast,  infinite, 
potential  Intelligence  that  is  conscious  of  itself 
only  through  us  —  and,  perhaps,  through  forms 
of  life  that  are  not  human,  and,  maybe,  through 
certain  minerals  and  gases  that  appear  to  have 
some  of  the  attributes  of  consciousness.  Of 
these  last  things  I  do  not  speak  with  certainty. 
But  sure  it  is  that  each  man  and  woman  has 
within  him  and  her  something  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 
God  sees  through  our  eyes  and  hears  with  our 
ears.  Therefore,  we  are  all  God:  we  are  all  the 
same.  Between  the  '  wicked '  man  and  the 
'  good  '  man  there  is  no  shadow  of  difference. 
If  one  hates  another,  he  is  hating  himself." 

His  pleasant,  eager  smile,  his  vehement  eyes, 
and  his  tall,  athletic  frame  made  many  women 
desire  him,  but  he  went  to  bed  with  none,  for  all 
the  grosser  appetites  of  his  body  seemed  to  have 

201 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

been  sublimated  into  an  ecstatic  spiritual  passion 
that  spent  itself  in  a  thousand  deeds  of  compas- 
sionate love. 

They  thought  him  mad,  but  they  never  reviled 
or  taunted  him,  for  he  was  known  throughout 
the  entire  breadth  of  that  city  as  a  man  of  noble 
deeds  and  imperishable  kindness. 

"Poor  boy!"  said  Susannah,  the  Jewish 
woman  who  sold  vegetables,  "  'tis  a  pity  so  fine 
a  fellow  should  be  wasted.  Those  lips  of  his  were 
made  for  kissing." 

'  You  say  what  is  right,"  agreed  Zacyntha,  a 
lewd  Greek  woman.  "  A  night  of  love  with  him 
would  but  whet  one's  appetite." 

Strange  it  was  that  none  of  those  women  of  the 
half-world  ever  attempted  to  tamper  with  him, 
but  vileness  must  always  recognize  and  fear  what 
is  pure.  They  gazed  at  him  often  with  eyes  of 
longing,  it  is  true,  but  the  gaze  he  gave  in  return 
was  always  the  very  negation  of  sex. 

"A  fool!  A  Parsifal!"  commented  the  re- 
spectable ladies,  for  most  of  them  would  most 
gladly  have  lost  their  respectability  had  Dmitri 
been  willing  to  snatch  it  from  them. 

Now,  in  a  dark  street  of  that  city  it  was  that 
Dmitri  dwelt,  inhabiting  two  rooms  in  the  house 
of  Jacques  Laborde,  a  young  Frenchman  who 
taught  many  languages.  Jacques  and  his  wife, 
Madelein,  loved  him  for  his  goodness,  but  a  time 
came  when  they  were  afraid  on  his  account. 

"You   have   noticed  something,   eh?"    asked 
Madelein  one  night,  as  she  and  her  husband  sat 
alone. 
202 


THE  MAN  WHO  GAVE  HIS  SOUL 

"  About  him?  .  .  .  Yes,  yes.  How  can  one 
express  it?  It  is  just  as  though  he  had  begun 
to  lose  himself,  as  though  he  had  spent  so  much 
of  himself  that  there  was  little  left  to  spend  —  less 
every  day." 

1  Yes  —  that's  it.  Yet  his  appetite  is  good,  he 
is  as  strong  as  ever,  and  he  has  never  been  more 
cheerful." 

"  Do  you  ever  feel,"  asked  Jacques,  after  a 
pause,  "  do  you  ever  feel  when  he  is  talking  to 
you,  that  he  is  giving  you  something  of  himself  — 
merging  his  personality  into  yours?" 

"  That  is  the  feeling.  I  don't  like  it.  Just  as 
though  his  soul  was  escaping  from  his  body  into 
mine.  .  .  .  Sometimes,  Jacques,  I've  felt  as 
though  something  of  his  personality  —  something 
ghostly,  ghastly,  too  —  had  floated  from  him  to 
me.  It's  made  a  change  in  me.  It's  coloured 
me  faintly,  like  a  few  drops  of  red  wine  in  a  glass 
of  water.  Is  such  a  thing  possible?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  her  husband,  un- 
easily. "Tell  me:  has  the  change  in  you  been 
for  evil  or  for  good?  " 

She  pondered  a  minute. 

"  Neither  one  nor  the  other,  I  think,"  she 
answered.  "  The  change  has  made  me  more 
vivid:  it  has  sharpened  me  —  put  an  edge  on 
my  feelings.  Perhaps,  really,  it  has  made  me 
more  myself." 

'  Why  have  you  not  spoken  of  this  before?  " 

She  laughed,  nervously. 

"  Because  it  was  uncanny,  and  I  was  uncertain. 
I'm  not  certain  even  now.  One  gets  fanciful 

203 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

in  my  condition.     Mamma  has  warned  me  to  ex- 
pect strange  thoughts." 

Jacques  clenched  and  unclenched  his  fists. 

"  It's  only  fancy  —  of  course  it's  only  fancy." 
'Yet  there  is  a   change   in   Dmitri!"   urged 
Madelein. 

"  Yes.     But  if  Dmitri  changes,  we  don't." 

He  put  an  end  to  the  conversation  by  going 
into  the  kitchen  to  draw  beer. 

But  when,  later  that  evening,  Dmitri  entered 
the  house  and  looked  into  their  room  for  a  chat 
bfore  going  to  bed,  they  were  immediately 
startled  by  his  appearance  and  manner. 

"Is  all  well  with  you?"  asked  the  young 
Greek,  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Jacques.  "  And 
you?" 

"  I  am  so  happy,"  answered  Dmitri,  "  that  I 
could  almost  shout  with  it.  I  am  getting  to  the 
heart  of  the  Great  Secret  at  last.  I  am  beginning 
to  prove  from  my  own  experience  that  what  I 
have  always  preached  is  true." 

His  large,  magnetic  eyes  dropped  their  gaze 
first  upon  Jacques  and  then  upon  Madelein: 
upon  her  eyes  his  gaze  floated,  and  then  sank 
into  them.  He  was  not  looking  at  her  eyes,  nor 
yet  beyond  them:  he  was;  penetrating  within 
them.  The  woman  did  not  flinch,  but  greedily 
drank  his  gaze. 

"  What  are  you  doing? "  she  asked,  in  a 
whisper. 

"  Do  you  not  feel,"  he  asked,  slowly,  "  that 
204 


THE   MAN  WHO  GAVE   HIS  SOUL 

you  are  not  now  what  you  were  a  minute  ago?  " 

"  Dmitri !  Dmitri !  "  exclaimed  Jacques;  "  you 
must  not  do  that." 

But  the  Greek  did  not  move  his  gaze  from  the 
woman's  face. 

"  We  are  all  one,"  he  said;  "  there  is  no  real 
separation  between  any  of  us:  it  is  merely  these 
houses  of  flesh  that  keep  us  divided.  When  our 
bodies  die,  all  our  souls  will  merge  into  one  Soul." 

Jacques  rose  timidly,  and  put  his  hand  on 
Dmitri's  arm. 

"  You  must  not  do  that !  "  he  said,  gently. 

And  because  Dmitri  still  gazed  into  Madelein's 
eyes  and  she  into  his,  Jacques  placed  himself 
between  them  and  broke  the  spell. 

"  Sit  down,  Dmitri,"  said  Jacques. 

Dmitri's  face  had  the  look  of  a  man  whose  soul 
is  being  disintegrated.  He  had  lost  his  per- 
sonality. His  eyes  were  dull,  his  face  was  lifeless. 
His  body,  his  movements,  his  attitude  still 
suggested  abundant  strength:  simply,  his  spirit 
had  suffered  eclipse. 

"  I  want  to  give  myself  to  my  fellows,"  he 
muttered,  "  but  no  one  will  take  me.  I  am  the 
rejected  of  all  men.  My  soul  is  sent  back  to  its 
home  each  time  it  tries  to  escape." 

He  sat  down  heavily,  and  brooded. 

There,  a  little  later,  they  left  him,  for  his  mood 
of  gladness  had  been  transformed  into  one  of 
gloom,  and  though  next  morning,  as  he  dressed, 
Dmitri  sang  out  of  a  deep  heart  filled  to  the  brim 
with  joy,  Jacques  looked  significantly  and  sorrow- 

205 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

fully  at  his  wife.     She,  in  turn,  questioned  him 
with  her  eyes.     But  neither  spoke. 

***** 

A  week  passed. 

There  came  a  day  when  Dmitri,  feeling  that 
almost  any  time  now  his  soul  might  leave  his 
body  never  to  return,  decided  to  stay  indoors 
and  give  a  final  revision  to  the  little  book  he  had 
written. 

His  bedroom  window  looked  upon  a  narrow 
street.  Across  the  way  was  a  wine-shop,  and 
even  at  this  early  hour  a  few  men  were  sitting 
drinking  at  the  little  tables  placed  on  the  pave- 
ment. For  a  few  minutes  Dmitri  stood  gazing 
lovingly  and  compassionately  at  the  passers-by; 
then,  abruptly,  and  with  a  sudden  sigh,  he  turned 
away,  and  sat  down  at  a  small  table  upon  which 
he  had  placed  the  MS.  of  his  book. 

He  read  steadily  from  the  beginning.  Half- 
way through  he  came  upon  this  passage. 

The  soul  clings  to  its  body;  the  spirit  yearns  for 
its  companion-flesh.  Is  it  true  that  only  death  can 
separate  them? 

It  is  impossible  for  us  to  love  others  more  than 
we  love  ourselves,  if  our  souls  cling  to  us  in  this 
despairing  way.  Loving  is  giving:  loving  is 
surrender  of  one's  self:  one's  self  is  one's  soul.  .  .  . 
But  my  soul  refuses  to  be  surrendered.  It  will  not 
leave  me.  Even  when,  because  of  my  love  for 
others,  £  try  to  banish  it  from  my  body,  it  will  not 
go,  or,  if  it  does  go,  it  soon  returns.  Is  it  refused, 
I  wonder,  by  those  to  whom  I  give  it? 
206 


THE  MAN  WHO  GAVE  HIS  SOUL 

Often  I  feel  people  wanting  me;  often  I  feel 
them  asking  for  me.  The  magnetic  ones  draw  me. 

He  sat  and  pondered.  He  recalled  how, 
throughout  the  whole  of  his  life,  he  had  with  joy 
spent  himself  upon  others.  A  passion  for  giving 
had  always  been  his.  As  a  boy,  he  frequently 
had  felt  an  aching  desire  to  give  himself  to  the 
sea  —  to  swim  out  into  the  depths  and,  spreading 
out  his  arms,  swoon  away  into  nothingness, 
making  himself  a  part  of  that  water.  Sometimes, 
even,  he  had  wanted  to  give  himself  to  fire,  to 
walk  naked  into  a  white,  inviting  furnace.  And, 
always,  when  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff,  he  felt  the 
great  pull  of  space  —  a  quick  eagerness  to  dis- 
appear, to  dissipate  himself  into  nothingness.  .  .  . 
To  give  himself  —  no  matter  to  what,  if  only  it 
were  greater  than  he  —  was  the  passion  that 
haunted  him  continually.  Not  to  cease  his 
existence;  not  to  cast  the  universe  from  him; 
not  to  repudiate  the  life  that  had  been  given  him. 
But  to  live  more  fiercely  in  flame,  more  largely 
and  grandly  as  a  part  of  a  great  giant  ocean, 
more  freely  as  an  atom  in  illimitable  space. 

Best  of  all,  to  give  himself  to  humanity:  not 
to  live  in  one  body,  but  in  a  million  bodies.  .  .  . 

As  he  sat,  a  thought  came  to  him  —  a  thought 
that  thrust  into  and  pierced  him,  as  a  sword 
thrusts  and  pierces,  that  shook  him  to  the  very 
foundations  of  his  being. 

"  If  one  man  cannot  draw  from  me  my  soul, 
a  great  crowd  of  men  may  —  nay,  must,"  he  told 
himself;  "  I  know  that  even  one  man  or  woman 

207 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

can  take  from  me  and  absorb  for  a  brief  period 
something  of  my  spirit;  surely,  when  a  thousand 
men  and  women  are  pulling  at  me  like  a  thousand 
magnets,  my  spirit  will  go  entirely  out  of  me  and 
live  in  them  for  ever." 

The  argument  seemed  so  logical  and  so  obvious, 
that  he  wondered  at  himself  for  not  thinking  of 
it  before. 

He  abandoned  the  reading  of  his  MS.,  and 
began  to  pace  the  room.  His  excitement  almost 
frenzied  him,  and  his  thoughts  ran  wildly. 

"  I  must  dress  for  the  occasion.  A  purple  robe, 
And  a  message.  I  shall  give  it  out  that  I  have  a 
message.  At  the  north  of  the  Citadel  it  shall  be, 
and  as  I  talk  to  them  I  shall  face  the  east." 

He  visualized  the  waiting  crowd  so  vividly 
that  his  body  acted  as  though  the  occasion  had 
already  arrived.  He  stopped  walking  and  threw 
out  his  arms.  His  eyes  became  dilated.  His  lips 
moved.  And  then  from  his  moving  lips  a  torrent 
of  speaking  poured.  He  held  his  hearers.  Even 
the  little  children  in  his  brain  were  awed:  he 
saw  them  huddling  against  their  mothers.  .  .  . 
With  a  shudder  he  came  to  himself. 


There  were  many  newspaper  offices  to  visit. 
One  of  them,  in  return  for  a  column  advertise- 
ment, agreed  to  publish  an  "  interview "  with 
him.  He  advertised  his  meeting  outside  the 
Citadel  in  every  newspaper,  however  obscure, 
for  he  felt  he  had  no  further  use  for  his  savings. 
'  When  my  soul  leaves  me  altogether,"  he 
208 


THE  MAN  WHO  GAVE  HIS  SOUL 

whispered,  to  himself,  "  my  body  will  die."     He 
bought  a  scarlet  robe  in  the  Bazaar. 

Jacques  and  Madelein  watched  him  anxiously 
during  the  following  days.  Several  times  he 
spoke  to  them  of  his  "  ending,"  and  told  them  it 
was  near  at  hand.  He  put  his  small  affairs  care- 
fully in  order,  and  handed  what  remained  of  his 
savings  to  Jacques. 

"  I  will  keep  it  for  you,"  said  Jacques. 

"No:  it  is  yours.  In  a  day  or  two  I  shall 
have  no  further  use  for  money.  Only  the  husk 
of  me  will  remain." 

Jacques  looked  at  him  very  sternly. 

"  Have  I  been  a  good  friend  to  you,  Dmitri?  ". 
he  asked. 

"  Why,  yes.  Always.  You  and  Madelein 
have  always  been  my  best  friends." 

"  Well,  then,  tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  do. 
Why  do  you  hand  me  your  money?  Why  do 
you  speak  of  only  the  husk  of  you  remaining? 
What  is  the  meaning  of  your  advertisements  in 
the  newspapers?  " 

Dymitri  smiled. 

"  Do  not  be  anxious  about  me,  Jacques,"  he 
entreated;  "no  harm  will  come  to  me  —  only  a 
great  good.  The  most  wonderful  thing  that  can 
happen  to  anybody  is  about  to  happen  to  me." 

And  Jacques'  further  persuasion  had  no  power 
to  make  Dmitri  speak. 


As   Dmitri,   clad  in   his  purple   robe,   walked 
through  the  streets  of  Salonika  on  the  evening 

209 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

appointed  for  his  meeting  outside  the  Citadel, 
he  was  followed  by  a  large  crowd  of  friendly 
people;  indeed,  he  walked  in  the  midst  of  the 
crowd,  talking  as  he  went.  He  bore  himself 
regally,  and  his  face  shone  with  joy. 

He  had  only  a  mere  handful  of  disciples,  but 
there  were  very  many,  both  rich  and  poor,  who 
liked  him,  and  there  were  still  more  who  were 
driven  by  curiosity  to  that  high  ground  outside 
the  city  walls,  which  looks  towards  the  jagged 
mountains  above  Hortiach. 

Having  arrived  at  the  place  he  had  selected 
for  the  delivery  of  his  Message,  his  disciples  went 
among  the  assembled  people,  directing  them 
where  to  sit.  Men  and  women,  to  the  number 
of  nearly  a  thousand,  seated  themselves  in  a  semi- 
circle on  the  higher  slopes  of  the  hill;  on  the 
hill's  summit  stood  Dmitri,  looking  down  upon 
the  faces  lit  by  the  sun  in  its  setting. 

Bareheaded,  he  stood  and  raised  both  arms  for 
silence.  The  eager  speech  of  his  beholders  died 
suddenly.  Dmitri  stood  for  a  long  minute  with- 
out a  word:  then,  just  when  the  silence  was 
becoming  uncomfortable,  he  spoke  in  his  golden 
voice. 

"  Many  of  you  have  come  here  from  curiosity; 
a  few  have  come  because  of  their  love.  But  I 
have  the  same  message  for  everyone.  All  the 
great  teachers  of  the  world  have  loved  their 
fellows:  no  man  can  teach  or  be  taught  without 
love.  Because  I  desire  to  teach  you  something 
now,  I  ask  any  of  you  who  hate  me,  or  secretly 
jeer  at  me,  or  despise  me,  to  kill  that  hate  and 
210 


THE  MAN  WHO  GAVE  HIS  SOUL 

that  mockery  and  that  contempt.  Indeed,  no 
man  among  you  can  hate  me  without  also  hating 
himself.  For  we  are  all  one.  We  are  not  a 
thousand  different  souls,  but  one  soul.  There  is 
only  one  soul  in  all  the  wide  world,  but  each  of 
your  bodies  contains  a  part  of  that  soul:  the 
great,  brooding  spirit  of  the  Universe  is  split 
up  into  millions  of  parts.  Of  those  millions  of 
parts  I  possess  but  one.  It  is  the  dearest  thing 
I  have:  it  is  the  only  thing  I  have.  My  body  is 
nothing  —  just  dust.  It  is  the  same  with  you  all : 
your  bodies  are  merely  the  prisons  of  your  souls. 

"  Many  of  you  will  not  understand  me  now, 
but  I  ask  you,  when  I  am  gone  from  among  you, 
to  consider  my  words.  You  will  all,  however, 
understand  this:  no  man  gives  unless  he  loves. 
If  I  want  to  give  you  something,  it  is  because  I 
love  you.  I  do  want  to  give  you  something. 
I  want  to  give  you  myself:  my  soul.  It  is  yours. 
Take  it." 

He  paused.  The  blank  faces  of  the  men  and 
women  hurt  him.  They  thought  him  mad.  He 
could  see  that  many  of  the  people  were  whispering 
to  each  other.  Some  were  even  smiling. 

"Listen!"  he  shouted,  passionately.  "I 
want  to  give  you  myself  so  that  I  may  prove  to 
you  that  we  are  all  one  —  that  our  souls  are  one 
soul.  If  my  soul  can  depart  from  my  body  into 
your  bodies,  then  you  will  know  that  we  are,  in 
truth,  all  one,  and  that  to  hate  or  hurt  your  neigh- 
bour is  to  hurt  and  hate  yourselves,  and  that  to 
injure  yourselves  by  wickedness  is  to  injure  all 
the  souls  in  all  the  world. 

211 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  I  ask  all  who  love  me,  and  who  have  under- 
stood the  words  I  have  spoken,  to  make  them- 
selves ready  to  receive  me." 

With  excitement  and  passion,  he  attempted 
to  confuse  his  mind  and  reduce  it  to  chaos  by 
inviting  a  multitude  of  varied  thoughts.  He 
stiffened  his  muscles  and  opened  his  eyes  to  their 
widest.  He  willed  his  soul  to  depart.  Madness 
painted  his  face  a  ghastly  white,  his  features  be- 
came, convulsed,  the  veins  in  his  forehead  stood 
out  horribly.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  onlookers  stared  in  fascination. 
A  few  murmured  with  fear  and  disgust. 

For  a  minute  and  more  Dmitri  stood  in  silence, 
goading  himself  on  to  unrestrainable  madness. 
His  mind  broke.  He  began  to  paw  the  air  with 
his  hands.  And  then,  smiling  stupidly,  he  sat 
down  and  played  with  his  fingers. 

His  disciples  rushed  upon  him. 

"  The  miracle  has  come  to  pass !  "  exclaimed 
one. 

"  Poor  Dmitri !  "  said  a  man  who  was  not  a 
disciple;  "he  gets  worse  and  worse!  His  mad- 
ness is  incurable." 

Hundreds  of  men  and  woman  crowded  round 
him,  but  Jacques  was  one  of  the  first  to  reach  his 
side.  With  the  help  of  others,  he  led  Dmitri 
from  the  crowd  and  took  him  home. 


A  month  passed. 

Dmitri  came  downstairs  to  the  room  in  which 
212 


THE  MAN  WHO  GAVE  HIS  SOUL 

Jacques  and  Madelein  were  sitting.  His  face  had 
no  meaning.  His  eyes  were  empty. 

He  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  tears  began  to 
run  down  his  cheeks. 

Jacques  stared  at  him  for  some  little  time  in 
profound  distress. 

"  We  must  get  rid  of  him,"  he  said,  aloud,  to 
Madelein,  "  if  only  for  your  sake." 

"  Yes,"  answered  his  wife,  sorrowfully;  "  I 
can  bear  him  no  longer.  He  must  go." 


213 


THE     STRANGER 


To 
Adrian  L.  Burns 


w 


HEN  my  friend  Trevor  Hempel  dis- 
appeared from  among  all  his  friends, 
he  left  me  the  following  letter: 


I  am  off  to  Australia  to-morrow,  and  I'm  going 
without  saying  farewell  to  any  one.  It  is  a  choice 
between  my  committing  murder  and  leaving 
Europe  for  ever.  Nature  has  played  me  false  — 
has  tricked  me.  Between  my  wife  and  me  she 
has  placed  something  monstrous:  a  "sport"  so 
hideous  that  to  live  any  longer  as  a  husband 
would  mean  a  swift  corrosion  of  anything  good 
that  is  left  of  me. 

I  felt,  my  dear  old  friend,  that  I  must  speak 
out  my  mind  to  some  one.  It  is  a  selfish  feeling. 
I  want  to  rid  myself  of  the  obsession  of  this 
wickedness.  I  want  you  to  share  its  knowledge 
with  me.  The  thing  is  of  such  a  kind  that  it 
ought  not  to  have  happened.  Nature  ought  not 
to  lie  in  wait  for  us  and  spring  out  like  a  baboon 
from  behind  a  tree.  We  know  Nature  is  cruel, 
but  not  until  lately  did  I  know  she  could  be 
malignant,  damnably  malignant,  looking  years 
ahead,  calculating  craftily  all  the  time.  .  .  . 

It  is  nine  years  since  I  met  the  woman  who 
afterwards  became  my  wife.  I  was  in  Salonika 
on  one  of  my  quarterly  business  visits.  At  the 
house  of  Madame  Leconte  de  Stran  it  was  that 
I  met  Judith  for  the  first  time.  Her  husband 
was  with  her:  a  dark  evil  man,  short,  with  a 
great  head  and  depth  of  chest  and  long,  deformed 
arms.  She  was  as  spiritual  as  he  was  gross : 
very  quiet,  but  full  of  character,  and  with  a  mind 
both  strong  and  active. 

217 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

I  remember  going  up  to  Madame  de  Stran. 

"  Who  is  that  woman  standing  against  the 
piano?  "  I  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Sterling.     Don't  you  know  her?  " 

At  the  word  "  Mrs."  I  felt  that  quick  annoyance 
that  sometimes  comes  to  one  when  one  hears  for 
the  first  time  that  a  woman  one  admires  is 
married. 

"  No.     Is  her  husband  here?  " 

She  indicated  the  shambling  figure  I  have 
described  to  you. 

"That!"  I  exclaimed.  "That  evil-looking 
beast  her  husband?  Impossible!" 

Madame  de  Stran  gave  me  a  quick,  inquisitive 
look. 

"  Professor  Sterling,"  she  said,  "  is  perhaps  the 
most  distinguished  man  of  science  in  Salonika. 
Why  do  you  call  him  a  beast?  " 

"Did  I?  I'm  sorry.  Tell  me  more  about 
him." 

"  Well,  he  describes  himself  as  an  experimental 
psychologist.  He  experiments  in  hypnotism, 
vivisects  brains,  and  .  .  .  Last  year  he  published 
in  Rome  a  book  that  is  talked  about  rather 
secretly." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then  laughed. 

"  All  this  sounds  rather  horrible,"  she  added, 
"  but  I  suppose  it  isn't  really.  At  all  events, 
he  is  greatly  respected  here  by  all  men  of 
learning." 

"  If  an  opportunity  arises,"  I  said,  "  will  you 
introduce  me  to  her?     What  I  mean  is,  I  don't 
want  the  introduction  to  be  conspicuous." 
218 


THE     STRANGER 

She  nodded  and  smiled. 

'  You'll  find  her  very  charming,"  she  said,  as 
I  walked  away. 

And  later  on  Madame  presented  me  to 
Judith. 

From  the  very  first  moment  we  talked  without 
restraint.  But  then,  as  I  learned  afterwards,  she 
was  never  restrained  with  anybody.  She  was 
utterly  frank  and  natural;  interesting,  too;  full 
of  curiosity  about  life. 

What  appealed  to  me  most  in  her,  I  think,  was 
her  careful  choice  of  words  when  discussing  any 
subject  that  really  mattered.  Her  speech  was 
free  from  all  exaggeration;  she  never  invented 
opinions  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  as  so  many 
people  do  in  casual  conversation.  This  pleased 
and  attracted  me.  But  there  was  something  in 
her  that  repelled  —  that  kept  me  at  a  distance. 
All  the  time  we  talked,  I  felt  that  the  best  part 
of  her  —  the  most  exquisite  part  —  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room  with  her  husband.  She 
was  not  really  with  me:  she  was  with  him.  I 
resented  this.  I  had  no  right  to  resent  it;  but  I 
did.  For,  already,  I  was  in  love  with  her. 

Lovers  move  craftily.  So  I  sought  out  her 
husband  and  was  presented  to  him.  He  looked 
me  over  carefully. 

'  You    have   been   talking   to    my   wife,"    he 
observed. 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  We  have  been  talking  to 
each  other." 

His  rather  large  mouth  smiled  insincerely. 

I  felt  he  had  guessed  my  secret.     Certainly, 

219 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

his  personality  emanated  a  faint  hostility.  He 
turned  to  Luigi  Papash,  .  .  .  the  man  who  has 
since  become  famous  as  a  poet,  and  began  to  talk 
to  him.  I  was  dismissed.  .  .  . 

You  would  be  bored  if  I  were  to  describe  to 
you  my  feverish  lover's  restlessness  during  the 
next  three  weeks.  I  did  many  foolish  things  — 
neglected  my  business,  wandered  about  alone, 
and  sought  every  opportunity  to  be  within  sight 
and  sound  of  Judith.  I  had  only  to  shut  my 
eyes  to  see  her  eyes,  calm  and  grey,  her  pale 
oval  face,  her  dark  hair.  She  seemed  pitiful. 
My  jealousy  burned  me.  It  was  impossible  for 
me  to  see  her  and  her  husband  together  without 
a  horrid  excitement.  .  .  .  But  you  know  these 
things:  all  men  feel  the  same  about  them. 

I  learned  very  little  more  about  her.  The 
previous  year,  I  was  told,  she  had  had  a  child, 
a  baby-boy,  who  had  died  when  eight  months 
old.  She  had  been  married  three  years.  Her 
husband  kept  his  work  hidden  from  her.  He 
never  discussed  it,  never  referred  to  it.  But  of 
their  mutual  idolatry  there  was  no  shadow  of 
doubt.  No  two  people  were  more  essential  each 
to  the  other;  yet  (or  do  I  mean  because?)  they 
were  entirely  different. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  I  went  back  to 
Athens. 

Madame  de  Stran  knew  my  secret;  oh,  I 
suppose  every  one  knew  it.  Every  one  except 
Judith  who,  absorbed  in  her  husband,  never 
exercised  her  intuitions  with  regard  to  myself. 
Madame  wrote  to  me  occasionally;  she  was  very 
220 


THE    STRANGER 

kind.  Just  news  of  Salonika  people.  And  some- 
where in  each  letter  would  be  a  sentence :  "  The 
Sterlings  are  still  here  ";  or,  "  Professor  Sterling 
has  just  published  a  pamphlet  on  '  The  Nature 
and  Origin  of  Cancer ' :  I  am  sending  you  a 
copy";  or,  "When  I  told  Mrs.  Sterling  I  was 
writing  to  you,  she  wished  me  to  send  you  her 
remembrances." 

Then,  one  morning,  opening  a  letter  of 
Madame  de  Stran's  before  I  touched  any  of  my 
other  correspondence,  I  read:  "Professor  Ster- 
ling is  seriously  ill.  They  say  he  has  brain 
fever." 

He  would  die:  I  knew  it.  I  prayed  that  he 
should.  I  willed  it.  I  thought  of  nothing  else 
all  day.  That  detestable,  dark  man  must  die. 
Judith  must  be  released.  .  .  . 

"  Released  "  ?  What  arrogant  vanity  distorts 
the  vision  of  all  lovers!  Released?  Why,  she 
was  happy.  Her  husband's  brain  was  not  for 
her  a  prison:  it  was  the  wide  world.  His  enfold- 
ing arms  were  freedom.  .  .  . 

That  same  evening  I  took  the  steamer  from 
Le  Piree  to  Salonika.  .  .  . 

I  want  to  describe  that  night  to  you,  because 
it  was  the  happiest  in  my  life.  You  must  remem- 
ber that  for  a  long  time  I  had  been  suffering  under 
a  strain  so  cruel  that  my  nerves  and  brain  were 
bruised  and  quivering.  The  sea  —  the  stars  — 
space  !  They  brought  me  solace. 

I  remember  leaning  over  the  rail  and  looking 
down  at  the  sea;  it  was  saturated  with  stars  and 
moonlight.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  became  part 

221 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

of  what  I  looked  at.  Does  that  convey  anything 
to  you?  I  was  released  from  myself.  I  had  got 
rid  of  myself.  I  had  become  renewed.  ...  It 
is  impossible,  my  dear  friend,  for  me  to  describe 
what  change  took  place  in  me  for  that  one  night. 
It  was  a  sudden  cessation  of  pain,  a  freeing  of 
the  soul,  an  accession  of  power.  Illusion,  no 
doubt  —  I  mean  the  consciousness  of  power.  If 
I  had  been  Zeus  himself ! 

At  all  events,  no  sleep  came  to  me  that  night: 
I  wanted  neither  sleep  nor  rest.  I  was  not  going 
to  Judith,  for  Judith  already  was  with  me.  She 
was  with  me  more  closely  that  night  than  she 
ever  was,  though  I  married  her.  My  mind  was 
full  of  poets'  phrases :  "  His  silver  skin  laced 
with  his  golden  blood  " :  lines  from  "  Annabel 
Lee":  the  "magic  casements"  of  Keats:  some 
stupendous  things  from  Whitman.  These  did 
not  tease  or  worry  me :  they  were  like  the  potent 
delicate  fumes  of  a  drug.  All  life  was  poetry: 
there  was  no  possible  interpretation  of  life  except 
the  romantic  interpretation.  Happiness  lay  not 
in  gathering  and  garnering  beauty,  but  in  sur- 
rendering oneself  to  beauty.  And,  in  a  burst, 
Wagner's  "Tristan"  rushed  flood-like  upon  me; 
I  was  drowned  in  its  pleasure-pain 

Well,  he  died.  He  was  dead  when  I  arrived 
at  Salonika.  The  news  gave  me  no  pleasure, 
for  what  had  happened  I  had  known  would 
happen. 

Madame  de  Stran  received  me. 
'You  look  ill,"  she  said;   "or  perhaps  you 
are  tired?  " 
222 


THE     STRANGER 

I  made  her  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  she  knew 
about  Judith. 

"  I  wish  to  God  she  had  never  borne  him  a 
child!  "  I  said,  w-hen  she  told  me  she  had  seen 
a  photograph  of  the  baby  taken  just  before  the 
illness  from  which  it  died. 

"He  was  very  like  his  father:  dark,  mis- 
shapen, vulpine,"  said  Madame. 

"  Don't  speak  of  him.  The  father  and  the 
child  are  dead:  only  she  remains.  Has  she  any 
close  friends  in  Salonika?" 

"  No  —  not  one  that  is  very  close,  though  many 
people  like  her.  She  did  not  make  intimacies. 
You  see,  her  husband  absorbed  her." 

"  And  now  what  will  happen?  " 

Madame  told  me  that  she  had  already  written 
to  Judith  offering  her  help:  probably  a  reply  to 
her  letter  would  come  in  the  morning.  She 
promised  to  summon  me  if  I  could  be  of  the 
slightest  use,  and  with  this  small  comfort  I 
returned  to  my  hotel  to  brood.  Inaction  lay  so 
heavily  upon  me  that  it  was  scarcely  to  be 
endured.  I  wanted  to  help  —  to  be  something  to 
her. 

That  night  I  lay  awake  in  dark  dejection.  In 
those  days  I  was  not  used  to  suffering,  to  anxiety. 
At  length  I  slept.  .  .  . 

Day  after  day  I  stayed  on,  hoping  to  be 
summoned,  Madame  de  Stran  giving  me  all  the 
comfort  she  could.  He  was  buried.  Judith  shut 
herself  up  in  her  house  1  At  night  I  would  walk 
from  my  hotel  towards  Kalamaria  and,  in  the 
complete  darkness,  wander  in  the  garden  sur- 

223 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

rounding  her  home.  I  remember  that  I  used  to 
touch  the  flowers  with  my  fingers.  I  used  to 
put  my  foot  on  the  pathway  and  say  to  myself: 
"  Her  foot  has  been  there !  "  The  garden  was 
magical  with  remembrances  of  her.  Yet  she 
was  absent,  and  the  ache  in  me  grew  and  grew. 
My  eyes  used  to  become  hot  with  unshed  tears. 
Though  it  was  torture  to  linger  there,  yet  I  could 
never  draw  myself  away  until  very  late,  and  one 
night,  sitting  down  on  a  bank,  I  fell  asleep.  As 
I  woke,  the  scent  of  dew-laden  roses  weakened 
me  unmercifully;  and  I  sobbed  without 
tears.  .  .  . 

I  must  tell  you  all  this:  it  matters:  it  is  the 
heart  of  the  tragedy  that  has  happened  to  me: 
that,  and  the  remembrance  of  her  brute-husband 
who  so  wickedly,  so  monstrously,  still  lives  in 
my  son.  .  .  . 

One  night,  while  in  her  garden,  I  saw  her.  I 
was  standing  in  a  little  grove  of  pepper-trees. 
She  came  slowly  towards  me.  I  stepped  back 
to  conceal  myself.  Her  little  feet  on  the  grass 
made  no  sound.  What  were  her  thoughts?  Oh, 
of  him  —  him  whom  she  had  loved  and  was  still 
loving.  It  was  he  who  for  her  haunted  this 
garden,  not  I.  If  my  body  had  been  multi- 
plied a  hundred-fold  and  all  my  hundred  bod- 
ies were  hiding  there  in  the  trees,  she  would 
have  felt  nothing.  She  passed  and  repassed, 
and  then  disappeared  into  the  gloom  of  the 
house. 

At  length,  under  the  implacable  pressure  of 
my  own  self-torture,  I  wrote  to  her.  I  told  her 
224 


THE     STRANGER 

I  knew  of  her  grief,  that  ...  In  short,  I  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  come  and  see  her. 

Months  later,  she  told  me  that  my  letter  had 
terrified  her.  Some  phrases  in  it  had  called  up 
many  dead  memories  and,  pondering,  she  had 
seen  in  a  flash  that  I  loved  her.  Her  spirit  was 
too  sore  even  for  sympathy,  and  offering  her  love 
was  like  offering  her  an  unsheathed  sword.  My 
letter  brought  no  answer,  and  two  days  later 
Madame  de  Stran  told  me  mournfully  that  Judith 
had  left  Salonika  for  Constantinople.  .  .  . 

Four  months  passed;  to  me,  working  in 
Athens,  they  were  four  years.  I  did  not  deceive 
myself  by  telling  myself  I  would  try  to  forget 
her:  no  man  ever  tries  to  forget  the  woman  he 
loves.  Madame  de  Stran  wrote  occasionally, 
promising,  and  repeating  her  promise  in  each 
letter,  that  she  would  tell  me  as  soon  as  she 
received  news  of  Judith's  return.  My  business 
prospered:  you  know,  I  have  always  been  suc- 
cessful. I  threw  myself  into  my  work,  and 
exhausted  my  false,  feverish  energy  by  violent 
exercise.  I  rode  my  horse  an  hour  each  day: 
I  swam:  I  walked:  and,  occasionally,  I  sought 
the  baleful  comfort  of  drink. 

September  came  and  went.  Then  in  October 
I  was  visited  by  a  mood  of  such  unremitting 
desperateness  that  I  suddenly  stopped  my  work 
and  my  violent  exercise.  I  felt  incapable  of  any 
action,  for  I  had  exhausted  all  my  energy.  I 
had  used  up  my  capacity  for  suffering;  I  could 
feel  neither  pain  nor  pleasure.  For  days  I  sat 
stupidly  in  my  office,  staring  at  nothing.  I 

225 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

closed  my  door  to  all  visitors;  I  transacted  no 
business;  I  answered  no  letters. 

Then,  one  morning,  as  I  was  moodily  pacing 
up  and  down  my  private  room,  a  clerk  entered 
with  a  telegram.  Idly  I  tore  open  the  envelope 
and  read  its  contents.  It  was  from  Madame  — 
just  one  word,  "  Come."  But  that  word  meant 
everything:  it  changed  the  whole  world  for 
me.  .  .  . 

Two  days  later  I  was  in  Salonika.  I  did  not 
wait  even  to  call  on  Madame  de  Stran,  but  went 
straight  to  Judith's  house. 

It  was  early  afternoon.  I  was  admitted.  The 
room  into  which  I  was  shown  was  empty. 
Already  greatly  agitated,  I  felt  my  excitement 
increasing  almost  beyond  bounds  whilst  I  waited. 
What  should  I  say  when  she  entered?  Would 
she  still  be  thrall  to  her  dead  husband?  Would 
his  personality  still  envelop  hers  and  obscure 
it? 

She  entered  so  silently  that,  though  my  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  door,  I  scarcely  realized  she 
was  there.  A  swift  searching  of  her  face  told 
me  she  was  well. 

She  was  courteous,  she  was  kind;  but  she  was 
timid.  She  spoke  of  her  friends  in  Constanti- 
nople. 

"  I  have  been  very  busy  with  my  work,"  she 
said,  smiling. 

As  she  looked  at  me  it  seemed  to  me  that  she 
was  doing  everything  possible  to  be  gentle  with 
me;  it  was  as  though  she  knew  she  had  the 
226 


THE     STRANGER 

power  to   hurt  me,   and  was   afraid  that  some 
chance  word  might  wound. 

"  Work?  '-'  I  asked. 

"  Yes.  My  husband  left  his  last  book  half 
finished  —  a  great  mass  of  notes,  and  a  rough 
synopsis  of  each  chapter.  I  wrote  the  book  as 
he  wished  it  to  be  written.  He  helped  me  all 
the  time." 

"  He  helped  you !  "  I  exclaimed,  shocked. 
4  Yes.     You  do  not  believe  in  communication 
with  the  dead?     He  did  not  speak  to  me,  it  is 
true,  but  he  guided  me." 

I  felt  suddenly  sick  and  cold. 
'  You  must  not  believe  it !  "  I  exclaimed.      "  It 
is    impossible!     Such    things    do    not    happen! 
You  may  think  it  happened,  but  it  didn't!  " 

She  smiled  gently,  as  she  said: 

"Ah!     Butltoiow/" 

"  But,  dear  Mrs.  Sterling  .  .  .  why,  such  a 
thing  has  never  come  to  pass  in  the  whole  history 
of  the  world.  Why,  then,  should  it  happen  to 
you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Do  not  let  us  discuss  it,"  she  said.  "  Besides, 
the  book  is  finished." 

"  And  does  he  still  communicate  with  you  — 
guide  you?  " 

"No,"  she  answered  sadly;  "all  that  is 
finished  —  he  has  gone  from  me  —  gone,  I  am 
convinced,  for  ever." 

"  I  also  have  been  working,"  I  said,  "  working 
hard." 

227 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  You  look  tired.  Have  you  been  in  Salonika 
long?" 

Our  talk  drifted  to  commonplace  things,  and 
soon  I  rose  to  leave. 

Next  day  I  sought  her  again.  She  was  in  the 
garden,  for,  though  it  was  now  late  October,  the 
weather  was  very  warm  and  sunny.  She  seemed 
disturbed,  but  not  surprised,  when  she  saw  me. 
We  wandered  slowly  under  the  trees;  their 
leaves  left  the  branches  as  we  came  and  fell  upon 
our  way.  I  did  not  feel  that  she  was  unhappy. 
I  asked  if  I  might  come  to  see  her  every  after- 
noon. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "  if  it  pleases  you." 

So  every  afternoon  I  spent  an  hour  with  her, 
and,  when  the  cold  weather  came  with  the  Varda 
winds,  we  sat  indoors. 

By  Christmas  she  had  promised  to  marry 
me.  .  .  . 

Now,  my  dear  friend,  you  must  understand 
that  even  before  our  marriage  I  realized  that 
she  was  not,  nor  ever  could  be,  wholly  mine.  In 
some  inexplicable  way,  she  still  belonged  to  him. 
Many  women  are  like  that:  the  best  women  are. 
Sterling's  name  was  never  mentioned;  after  our 
engagement  he  was  not  referred  to  even  remotely. 
Yet  she  was  his.  Then  why,  you  ask,  did  she 
marry  me?  Out  of  pity;  I  am  sure  of  it.  Yet, 
in  a  way,  she  loved  me  and  loves  me  still.  No 
one  could  have  been  more  tender,  more  generous, 
more  self-sacrificing:  it  weakens  and  unmans  me 
to  think  of  these  things.  .  .  . 

I  took  her  away  with  me  to  Athens.  I  was 
228 


THE     STRANGER 

very  happy.  I  had  never  believed  such  unalloyed 
bliss  as  mine  was  possible.  It  never  faded.  And 
Judith,  in  her  fashion,  was  happy  also. 

Sometimes,  it  is  true,  Sterling  passed  ghost- 
like between  us.  There  were  occasions  when 
.  .  .  but  let  me  give  you  an  instance. 

One  day,  in  the  April  after  our  marriage,  we 
went  to  Eleusis  by  rail  and  wandered  over  the 
ruins  of  that  once-wonderful  place.  Tired,  we 
sat  down  to  rest  on  a  broken  column.  We  were 
silent  and  alone.  There  came  upon  me  one  of 
those  moods  of  gentle  ecstasy  in  which  the  soul 
seems  to  nestle  softly  in  one's  body,  satisfied  and 
glad  to  be  there.  Judith's  hand  was  in  mine: 
I  felt  she  was  really  with  me,  in  body,  in  mind, 
in  soul.  My  ecstasy  increased.  Lifting  my  eyes 
to  her  face,  I  saw  that  she  also  was  a-thrill  with 
bliss.  Her  eyes  were  softened  with  unshed  tears. 
Her  throat  trembled  visibly.  Her  breath  came 
quickly.  .  .  .  But,  Christ!  not  for  me!  Not 
for  this  moment,  nor  this  place!  But  for  him! 
For  some  day  of  long  ago  —  for  some  never-for- 
gotten hour  of  love  with  him.  .  .  . 

Gently,  very  gently,  though  I  suffered  as  never 
before,  I  withdrew  my  hand  from  hers.  She 
trembled  violently,  turned  her  face  to  mine  and, 
with  a  little  cry,  flung  her  arms  about  me. 

"Oh,  little  one!"  she  cried;  "forgive  me! 
Forgive  me !  " 

And  the  tears  that  had  gathered  for  him  were 
shed  for  me.  .  .  . 

And  now  I  have  to  tell  you  of  the  slow  horror 
that  began  to  creep  upon  me  —  upon  us  both. 

229 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

For  a  long  time,  I  thrust  it  away  with  my  hands, 
I  closed  my  eyes  to  it,  my  mind  refused  to  admit 
it.  Only  to-day,  indeed,  for  the  first  time,  do 
I  really  accept  and  believe  it,  though  for  years 
it  has  hung  about  my  neck  most  loathsomely. 

A  year  after  our  marriage  Judith  bore  me  a 
male  child  —  a  healthy  baby  who  came  into  the 
world  without  unnecessary  fuss  and  who  con- 
tinued to  thrive  from  the  moment  of  his  birth. 
Though,  of  course,  I  was  very  fond  of  the  little 
chap,  I  did  not  see  much  of  him.  Indeed,  as 
you  know,  I  am  not  the  kind  of  parent  who 
gloats  over  his  offspring. 

We  employed  a  nurse,  and  both  baby  and 
nurse  lived  in  the  rooms  set  apart  for  them. 
When  I  returned  home  from  my  work  each  eve- 
ning, our  baby  was  generally  asleep,  and  I  rarely 
saw  him  on  these  occasions.  If  I  did  go  to  his 
cot,  Judith  always  accompanied  me;  indeed,  I 
used  to  tease  her  on  account  of  her  appearing 
never  to  wish  me  to  be  alone  with  our  child. 

Two  months  after  his  birth  I  went  alone  to 
London  on  business,  expecting  to  be  away  a 
month  or  so.  But  I  was  detained  in  England 
much  longer  than  I  had  expected,  and  when  at 
length  I  returned  to  Athens  I  had  been  away  four 
months.  .  .  . 

When,  my  dear  fellow,  I  began  this  letter,  I 
meant  to  tell  you  all  my  tragedy  in  detail,  but 
now,  when  I  reach  the  very  heart  of  it,  I  feel 
I  must  hurry  its  telling. 

I  saw  my  son  —  a  little  black  creature  —  and  it 
seemed  to  me  he  looked  at  me  with  eyes  of  hate. 
230 


THE     STRANGER 

He  was  not  mine:  I  could  not  feel  that  he  was 
mine.  His  nurse,  looking  from  him  to  me,  said 
kindly : 

"  He  is  very  like  you,  sir  —  he  has  your  fore- 
head." 

'  Yes,"  breathed  Judith,  who  stood  by  my 
side ;  "  we  have  often  said  that,  haven't  we, 
nurse?  " 

I  turned  to  look  at  her,  but  she  fluttered  away 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  I  could  not 
see  her  face.  So,  with  an  effort,  I  bent  low  over 
the  cot  in  which  my  son  lay  and  scrutinized  each 
feature  of  his  face  in  turn.  But  I  could  see  none 
of  my  blood  in  him.  Nothing  of  mine  was  his. 
.  .  .  The  dead  past  had  come  to  life.  Sterling 
still  survived.  .  .  . 

I  am  sure  that  my  manner  of  living  at  this 
time  puzzled  and  distressed  my  friends  —  you,  in 
particular.  If  you  will  carry  your  mind  back  to 
two  years  ago,  you  will  recollect  how  I  plunged 
myself  into  wild  dissipation  for  a  time,  and  how 
in  a  fit  of  most  reticent  yet  hot  anger  I  left  wife 
and  home  for  Persia,  then  India,  then  China, 
All  the  time  I  was  away  —  until,  indeed,  yester- 
day when  I  returned  home  after  my  long  absence 
—  I  was  trying  to  forget.  To  forget  my  son,  I 
mean.  For  a  time  I  hated  Judith.  It  was 
through  her  that  Nature  had  dealt  me  this  blow. 
If  she  had  not  so  dearly  loved  Sterling,  I  thought, 
this  thing  could  not  have  happened  to  me.  But 
as  the  months  went  by  I  softened  to  my  wife; 
my  hatred  of  her  broadened  into  a  hatred  of  life 
itself. 

231 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

In  the  letters  she  wrote  me  she  never  made 
even  passing  mention  of  our  son. 

Then,  yesterday,  I  returned.  Judith  was  ex- 
pecting me.  Her  manner,  generally  so  calm,  was 
disturbed,  agitated.  She  has  grown  very  thin, 
very  old. 

"Where  is  he?"  I  asked. 

"  Upstairs  —  in  the  nursery.  But  do  not  go  to 
see  him  now,"  she  urged.  "  Stay  with  me  a 
little  while." 

And  she  put  her  arms  about  my  neck  and 
kissed  me  fondly.  My  flesh  responded  to  hers. 
But  whilst  we  stood  locked  in  each  other's  arms, 
my  memory,  hating  me,  threw  up  before  my 
eyes  a  vivid  picture  of  the  dark  little  creature 
I  left  behind  two  years  ago.  I  shuddered.  My 
braced  arms  slackened.  I  turned  away. 

"  I  must  see  him  now,"  I  said;  "  is  he  well?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  —  regretfully,  I  thought. 

We  went  to  the  nursery.  He  was  sitting  on 
the  floor,  playing  with  his  toys.  She  stood 
between  him  and  me,  as  though  shielding  him. 
It  was  Sterling  —  Sterling  as  he  must  have  looked 
at  the  age  of  two  and  a  half  —  an  eager,  intelli- 
gent face,  long,  deformed  arms,  a  great  breadth  of 
chest,  a  vulpine  look  in  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

As  his  eyes  caught  mine,  his  whole  body 
stiffened.  He  put  up  a  little  hand  against  his 
face  and  made  a  sound  of  rage. 

I  do  not  know  what  movement  I  made,  but 
Judith,   suddenly  stooping,   caught  her  child  up 
from  the  floor  and  folded  him  in  her  arms. 
232 


THE     STRANGER 

'You  must  not  touch  him!"   she  said,   pale 
and  distraught. 

And  she  placed  a  hungry  kiss  upon  his  lips.  .  .  . 
And  so,  my  dear  friend,  farewell. 


A    LITTLE    CORRESPONDENCE 


To 

Bertram  Pace 


MARRIAGE  seemed  to  Katya  a  much 
jollier  game  than  she  had  anticipated. 
She  liked  her  house,  her  garden,  her 
servants ;  as  for  Guy,  he  was  too  utterly  adorable 
for  words.  Most  of  all,  she  liked  patronizing 
those  of  her  friends  and  acquaintances  who  were 
less  fortunate  than  herself:  she  enjoyed  giving 
them  little  dinners  during  which  she  would  speak 
a  few  barbed,  malicious  words  that  made  her 
listeners  wince. 

One  afternoon,  sitting  among  her  roses  in  the 
silent  garden,  she  began  to  think  of  Captain 
Pierre  Lacroix,  her  Brussels  lover,  in  whose  arms 
she  had  nestled  so  often  the  previous  year.  He 
had  really  been  quite  perfect,  and  since  she  had 
returned  home  to  Greece  she  had  frequently, 
when  lying  awake  at  night,  reproached  herself 
for  not  having  yielded  to  his  wild  solicitations. 
Never  in  the  years  that  remained  to  her  was  she 
likely  to  meet  so  fine  an  animal,  so  fierce  a  lover, 
so  fascinating  a  personality. 

Her  husband,  Guy  Fallen,  was  adorable,  but 
he  was  not  Pierre  Lacroix.  God  had  made  only 
one  Pierre.  And  he  was  thousands  of  miles  away 
in  Brussels.  Still,  she  could  write  to  him;  if 
she  could  not  throw  herself  into  love's  furnace, 
she  could  at  least  play  with  love's  fire.  .  .  . 

So  she  left  her  roses  and  went  into  her  cool 
house  with  its  tiled  floors,  it  great  entrance-hall 
where  a  white  fountain  so  cleverly  made  a  mist 
of  water,  its  great  walls  on  to  which  hung,  like 
butterflies,  so  many  Segantinis,  and  its  wide  pas- 

237 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

sages  that  somehow  made  her  feel  like  a  princess 
of  Ancient  Rome. 

Her  boudoir,  however,  was  rather  small.  Its 
furniture  was  of  inlaid  rosewood.  There  were 
many  full-length  mirrors  sunk  deeply  into  frames 
of  unusual  shape,  and  the  stove  was  made  of 
porcelain,  painted  green.  Sitting  down  near  the 
open  window,  she  began  to  write. 

"  MY  DEAR  PIERRE,  —  Do  not  be  grieved.  I 
always  promised  you  I  would  never  marry  any 
one  but  you,  but  I  have  been  unable  to  keep  my 
word.  What  fool  was  it  who  years  ago  said  the 
flesh  is  weak?  My  flesh  is  not  like  that.  It  is 
too  strong.  It  has  overwhelmed  me.  I  am 
married.  Yes:  it  is  the  end.  One  is  finished 
when  marriage  comes.  There  is  nothing  left 
but  to  sit  down  and  wait  until  the  children 
arrive. 

''  When  we  meet,  we  must  not  kiss  each  other 
as  we  used  to.  You  may  kiss  me  Eke  a  brother; 
I,  in  return  will,  like  a  sister,  kiss  you.  That 
will  be  all,  but  even  that  will  be  nice.  Do  you 
think  you  will  ever  be  able  to  come  to  Salonika 
to  be  my  brother?  No? 

"  It  is  strange  that,  though  I  have  been  married 
so  short  a  time,  I  should  still  be  thinking  of  the 
boulevards,  the  Avenue  Louise  and  the  Bois  de  la 
Cambre  —  that  I  should  still  be  thinking  of  you, 
and  you,  and  still  you.  This  is  naughty  of  me, 
I  know,  but  sometimes  I  wish  that  in  those  days 
I  had  not  been  quite  so  ...  what  is  the  word? 
.  .  .  timid?  —  proud?  —  cruel? 
238 


A    LITTLE    CORRESPONDENCE 

"Never  mind:  do  not  be  angry  that  I  was 
married  six  weeks  ago.  You  will  soon  recover 
from  your  disappointment,  your  love-hunger. 

"  As  for  me,  I  am  happy.  My  husband  is 
rich:  he  adores  me.  I  have  many  friends.  I 
play  the  piano  better  than  any  one  in  the  whole 
city  of  Salonika.  And,  dear  Pierre,  I  have  you 
to  dream  of  in  my  idle  hours.  .  .  .  Take  my 
advice  and  marry  a  nice  simple  girl  and  settle 
down;  but  she  must  not  be  so  clever  as  I  am,  nor 
so  beautiful,  nor  so  mysterious.  And  you  must 
not  love  her  as  much  as  you  once  loved  (and 
perhaps  now  love?)  me. 

"  Do  not  forget:  when  we  meet  we  must  kiss 
as  sister  and  brother. 

"  From  your  KATYA." 

She  read  her  letter  over  and  liked  it. 

"  If  he  can  leave,  he  will  surely  come !  "  she 
told  herself. 

And,  rising  from  her  chair,  she  walked  to  a 
large  oval  mirror  and  gazed  at  herself  smilingly. 
Then  a  thought  struck  her:  she  was  tired:  she 
would  go  to  bed  and  rest. 

Her  bedroom  was  very  long  and  rather  narrow; 
at  each  end  was  a  large  window.  In  this  room 
also  were  many  full-length  mirrors.  Several  of 
them  were  on  movable  stands  furnished  with 
castors.  Three  of  these  she  so  arranged  that  they 
formed  a  kind  of  triangle,  the  mirrors  facing  in- 
wards. Stripping  herself  nude,  she  stepped 
within  the  triangle,  and  placed  herself  in  such 
a  position  that  she  could  see  the  reflection  of 

239 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

every  part  of  her  body.  For  a  little  while  she 
gazed  at  herself  critically,  anxiously,  a  small 
frown  crinkling  her  forehead;  but  the  frown 
gradually  disappeared,  and  in  a  minute  or  two 
criticism  had  changed  to  whole-hearted  admira- 
tion. 

"  Why,  I  do  believe  I  am  more  beautiful  than 
ever,"  she  said  as  she  slipped  her  warm  body 
between  the  cool  sheets. 

Placing  under  the  pillow  the  letter  she  had 
written  to  Pierre  Lacroix,  she  was  soon  slumber- 
ing. 

***** 

A  fortnight  later  there  came  for  her  a  letter 
with  the  Brussels  postmark.  She  pushed  it  under 
her  plate,  for  she  and  her  husband  were  at  break- 
fast, but  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  over  she  sought 
her  rose-garden,  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read 
what  follows. 

"  MADAME,  —  What  is  it  you  mean  by  writing 
to  my  husband  of  kisses?  It  is  shameful,  in- 
credible !  For  three  days  he  was  strange  to  me. 
I  knew  not  why.  But  now  I  do  know,  for  this 
morning  I  found  your  letter  in  a  secret  pocket 
of  his  coat.  I  do  not  know  you;  I  do  not  want  to 
know  you.  If  you  write  to  him  again,  your 
letter  will  be  returned  to  your  husband.  I  have 
been  married  to  Pierre  a  year:  already  I  have  a 
baby  and  another  is  on  the  way.  Kisses,  indeed! 

"  JEANNE  LACROIX." 

Katya  was  both  angry  and  amused. 
It  amused  her  to  know  that  her  letter  had  lain 
240 


A    LITTLE    CORRESPONDENCE 

close  to  Pierre's  body  for  three  days,  but  she 
was  very  angry  that 'he  had  married.  Why,  he 
must  have  sought  a  bride  within  a  few  weeks  of 
her  leaving  Brussels  for  Salonika.  It  was  evident 
he  had  married  a  fool,  a  breeder  of  children,  a 
jealous  woman  who  could  not  write  a  clever 
letter.  It  was  good  that  he  should  have  married 
a  fool.  But  it  was  an  evil  thing  that  he  should 
so  soon  have  forgotten  her  for  whom  he  had 
vowed  he  would  remain  single  for  ever.  .  .  . 

Her  thoughts  wandered  from  her  to  her  hus- 
band, and  she  felt  a  sudden  passionate  desire. 
Having  torn  Mrs.  Lacroix's  letter  into  tiny  pieces, 
she  made  a  hole  in  the  flower-bed  with  a  broken 
stick,  thrust  in  the  bits  of  paper,  and  covered  up 
the  hole  with  the  heel  of  her  shoe. 

Then  she  called  to  her  husband  who,  at  her 
summons,  came  from  the  house  to  meet  her. 

"Hello!"  he  said. 

She  put  an  arm  round  his  neck  and  drew  his 
face  down  to  hers. 

He  smiled  and  began  to  tease  her. 

"  Is  our  honeymoon  going  to  last  for  ever?  " 
he  asked,  holding  his  head  back  so  that  his  lips 
did  not  quite  touch  hers. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said;  "I  don't  want 
to  kiss  you." 

He  looked  up  the  garden  to  the  field  where  the 
thick  weeds  grew  profusely  many  feet  high. 

"Shall  we  hide  ourselves  in  the  grass?"  he 
asked. 

She  pretended  to  draw  away  from  him.  So 
he  put  his  arm  about  her  waist  and  compelled 

241 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

her  to  walk  by  his  side.  They  passed  through  the 
flowers  and  reached  the  edge  of  the  field.  When 
they  stepped  into  the  luxuriant  weeds,  the  grasses 
almost  touched  their  shoulders.  AT  the  field's 
centre  they  stopped. 

"  I  love  you  much  better  than  Pierre,"  she 
whispered. 

;<  Who  is  Pierre?"  he  asked  indifferently, 
taking  his  lips  from  her  neck  in  order  to  speak. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  "  I  have  for- 
gotten." 


242 


THE  DEAF-MUTE  OF  KILINDIR 


To 

Christina  Walshe 


AT  Kilindir  two  men  loved  the  same  woman. 
Marania  was  tall  and  dark  and  gentle;  he 
had  the  devotion  of  a  dog;  his  instinct 
for  self-sacrifice  was  as  great  as  that  of  a  good 
woman  for  the  husband  she  loves.  Sobraji,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  small  and  fair  and  cunning; 
as  a  boy  he  tortured  animals,  and  as  a  man  he 
tortured  his  mother  and  sisters. 

The  name  of  the  woman  was  Pabasca.  She 
was  very  dainty  and  pretty,  and  her  cheeks  were 
like  red  poppies  seen  in  the  half-light.  But  she 
was  also  very  evil. 

It  was  Sobraji  whom  Pabasca  loved,  but  So- 
braji was  poor;  Marania,  on  the  other  hand, 
owned  land  and  cattle. 

"  If  I  am  careful,"  said  Pabasca  to  herself  one 
evening,  as  she  sat  outside  her  mother's  cottage, 
"  if  I  am  careful,  I  can  have  both  Sobraji's  love 
and  Marania's  money.  It  has  been  done  be- 
fore —  I  have  seen  it." 

This  thought  had  lain  broodingly  in  her  mind 
for  weeks,  but  she  had  spoken  of  it  to  no  one  — 
not  even  to  Sobraji.  And  yet  if  she  were  to  carry 
her  plan  into  effect,  Sobraji  was  the  one  man  in  all 
the  world  who  must  be  told. 

It  was  time  something  was  done,  for  the  ardent 
love  of  the  two  men  was  wearing  her  down.  Only 
this  morning  she  had  received  another  of  Mara- 
nia's strange  letters.  She  could  remember  some 
of  its  phrases. 

"  Last  night  I  lay  awake  listening  to  a  nightin- 
gale; your  voice  was  in  that  bird's  throat.  .  .  . 

245 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

The  rushes  bending  in  the  wind  this  afternoon 
were  like  your  supple  body.  ...  I  sometimes 
think  your  soul  is  in  my  hands." 
.  It  was  impossible  not  to  be  pleased  by  these 
phrases  that  her  mean  little  soul  could  only  half 
understand,  but  her  pleasure  was  tinged  with  con- 
tempt. 

Sobraji  did  not  make  love  in  that  way.  He 
wrote  no  letters.  When  he  met  her  at  night  he 
whispered  amorous  indecencies  in  her  ear  which 
made  her  laugh  and  laugh. 

Nearly  every  sentence  began  with:  "  How  I 
would  like  to  ...  !  "  and  there  was  no  end  to 
the  ingenious  ways  of  love  his  cunning  mind  de- 
vised. 

But  she  had  kept  her  body  untouched  by  both 
men.  Though  love  was  heady  and  intoxicating, 
she  was  too  calculating,  too  distrustful,  to  give 
her  body:  when  the  time  came,  her  body  should 
be  sold.  But  Sobraji  had  begun  to  demand,  and 
Marania  to  pray  for,  an  answer  to  the  question 
each  had  put  so  many  times.  It  was  tiresome, 
she  thought,  to  be  driven  to  speech  when  she  was 
not  ready  for  speech.  If  Sobraji  came  to-night, 
she  would  have  to  tell  him  her  plan. 

He  did  come.  It  was  dark.  He  crept  among 
the  bushes,  and  she  heard  him.  Then,  stealthily, 
he  emerged  from  the  plantation  and  touched  her 
on  the  shoulder.  His  hand  slid  down  her 
arm  to  her  hip  and  lingered  there.  She  bent  over 
to  him,  and  he  seized  her  roughly,  brutally,  as  a 
faun  might  seize  a  virgin,  and  pulled  her  body  to 
his. 
246 


THE    DEAF-MUTE   OF   KILINDIR 

"  Oh!  "  he  half  whispered,  half  groaned,  "  how 
I  would  like  to.  .  .  ." 

Almost  she  swooned  with  ecstasy. 

"  Come  into  the  plantation!  "  he  urged. 

She  obeyed,  and  when  they  were  among  the 
trees,  he  seized  her  so  savagely  that  she  turned 
upon  him  with  fear  and  anger. 

'  What  are  you  doing?  "  she  asked,  placing  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders  and  pushing  him  violently 
away. 

:t  Well,  you  won't  marry  me !  "  he  protested. 
"  What  is  a  man  to  do  if  the  girl  he  loves  won't 
marry  him?  It  isn't  as  though  you  don't  love 
me  —  you  do :  you  know  you  do." 

"  If  I  married  you,  I  should  starve,"  she  said; 
"  or,  at  all  events,  I  should  have  to  work  so  hard 
that  I  should  have  no  joy  in  you.  Listen  while 
I  tell  you  something." 

And  then  in  a  very  low  voice  she  revealed  her 
plan  to  him. 

"  I  will  be  Marania's  wife,  but  you  shall  be  my 
lover.  We  will  meet  in  secret.  And  some  of  the 
money  he  gives  me  I  will  hand  over  to  you." 

She  spoke  for  a  long  time,  her  voice  excited 
but  very  low,  urging  upon  him  the  advantages  of 
this  scheme.  She  explained  how  he  had  every- 
thing to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose,  whilst  she  stood 
to  lose  everything. 

"  But  if  he  found  out !  "  interrupted  Sobraji, 
"  he  would  kill  me !  Surely  he  would  kill  me !  " 

Pabasca  stirred  angrily  in  his  arms. 

'  You  must  risk  that !  "  she  said  disgustedly, 
though  she  knew  very  well  that  Marania  was  too 

247 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

gentle,  too  long-suffering,  and  too  profound  a  be- 
liever in  Fate,  to  wish  to  kill  any  one. 

"When  will  you  marry  him?"  he  asked. 

"  Soon.     Now.     In   a   fortnight." 

"  Very  well,"  said  he;  "  then  let  me  love  you 
now." 

But  she  drew  away  from  him,  pushing  him 
back  with  her  white  arms. 

"  Your  beautiful  teeth  —  how  white  they 
are!  "  he  said;  "  and  I  can  almost  see  your  white 
breasts  through  your  .  .  ." 

"Hush!"  she  warned,  as  she  heard  footsteps 
on  the  pathway  leading  to  the  cottage.  "  It  is 
Marania.  I  will  go  to  him  and  tell  him  I  love 
him  and  will  marry  him." 

Sobraji  lingered  a  minute  after  she  had  gone, 
his  body  a-tremble  with  desire.  Then,  in  the 
dark,  he  parted  the  bushes  with  his  hands  and 
went  his  own  way. 

Marania  met  Pabasca  with  a  smile  that  could 
be  seen  even  in  the  darkness.  He  took  her  hand 
in  his  for  a  moment  and  patted  it  gently. 

"  Though  I  cannot  see  you,"  he  said,  "  I  know 
you  are  as  beautiful  as  the  night  itself." 

He  led  her  down  the  pathway  on  to  the  ill- 
made  road.  Embarrassed,  she  remained  silent. 

"Listen!"  he  said;  "that's  the  nightingale  I 
heard  last  night  —  I'm  sure  it  is  —  the  one  I 
wrote  to  you  about.  .  .  .  Did  you  like  my  let- 
ter?" 

"  Oh,  yes:  of  course  I  did.  But  what  did  you 
mean  when  you  said  my  voice  was  in  its  throat?  " 
248 


THE    DEAF-MUTE   OF   KILINDIR 

'  Well,  as  I  lay  in  bed,  it  was  so  easy  to 
imagine  that  it  was  you  singing." 

"  But  I  never  sing." 

"No?  But  if  you  did,  you  would  sing  like 
that.  Listen!" 

They  stopped  walking,  and  he  placed  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder. 

'  When  I  think  of  you,  that's  how  my  heart 
feels,"  he  said.  "  All  people  must  be  happy  when 
they  think  of  you." 

"  Marania,  you  think  too  well  of  me,"  she  said 
craftily. 

"  My  heart  is  empty  because  you  do  not  love 
me,  and  my  house  is  as  empty  as  my  heart. 
Think  of  it !  —  that  big  house  with  no  one  in  it 
save  myself  and  my  deaf  and  dumb  servant, 
Cesiphos.  It  is  not  a  home:  it  is  only  a  house. 
No  house  can  be  a  home  without  children." 

"  Yes,  children,"  she  said  softly,  deceiving  him. 
"  And  a  woman  is  not  really  a  woman  until  she 
has  borne  a  child." 

She  had  read  that  in  a  book  and  had  wondered 
at  it ;  she  was  very  glad  that  she  had  remembered 
it  now. 

"Won't  you  marry  me,  Pabasca?"  he  asked 
hopelessly,  for  he  had  asked  this  question  many 
times,  and  had  always  been  blankly  refused. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied. 

His  heart  leapt  and  he  drew  nearer  to  her, 
placing  his  arm  about  her  waist.  They  were  still 
standing,  and  the  nightingale  was  pouring  out  his 
heart.  He  held  her  firmly  and,  stretching  out 

249 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

his  arm  to  its  utmost  limit,  his  hand  closed  gently 
on  her  breast. 

"You  are  changing?"  he  asked;  "you  are 
growing  to  like  me  better  —  to  love  me?  " 

Her  body  yielded  to  his  embrace  and  she  turned 
to  face  him. 

"  Kiss  me,  Marania,"  she  said,  panting  a  little, 
and  pouting  her  lips. 

But  he  kissed  her  brow  instead  of  her  mouth. 
A  wave  of  irritation  passed  over  her. 
'  You  do  not  love  me !  "  she  said. 

"  Not  love  you,  little  dear?  " 

He  held  her  away  from  him  for  a  few  moments, 
looking  inquiringly  into  her  face;  but  she  closed 
her  eyes  and  set  her  mouth.  "  How  stupid  he 
is!"  she  thought.  He  could  just  see  the  dusky 
red  of  her  cheeks.  The  nightingale's  song  ceased 
suddenly. 

"Not  love  you?"  he  repeated.  "Why,  you 
are  everything  to  me  —  the  moon  and  the  stars, 
my  food  and  drink,  my  dreams  and  my  work. 
You  are  a  part  of  everything  that  is  good." 

He  again  drew  her  to  his  breast.  Her  thoughts 
fastened  on  Sobraji,  her  imagination  transforming 
Marania's  body  into  that  of  the  man  she  loved. 
She  threw  her  arms  about  him  wildly. 

"  Kiss  me!  "  she  murmured;  "  kiss  me  on  the 
mouth !  " 

Incredulous,  he  hesitated  a  moment;  then, 
with  a  smothered  cry,  he  placed  his  lips  on  hers, 
and  he  stood  in  that  deep  silence  lost  in  the  sweet 
bitterness  of  unaccomplished  love. 

*  *  * 

250 


THE    DEAF-MUTE   OF   KILINDIR 

Cesiphos,  the  deaf  and  dumb  servant  of  Ma- 
rania,  had  no  interest  in  life  save  to  please  his 
master.  His  happiness  was  greatest  when  Ma- 
rania,  with  a  smile  and  a  sign,  thanked  him  for 
some  work  he  had  done.  On  these  occasions, 
Cesiphos  would  return  to  his  quarters  with  a  glad 
heart  and  singing  eyes.  His  master  was  pleased 
with  him:  that  was  all  that  mattered. 

But  when  Marania  brought  home  his  wife, 
Pabasca,  Cesiphos  felt  cold  and  angry.  No 
longer  would  he  be  first  in  his  master's  eyes.  The 
work  in  which  he  took  so  much  delight  would  be 
done  not  for  Marania  alone,  but  for  Marania's 
wife  also;  moreover,  Pabasca  herself  would  super- 
intend the  working  of  the  household,  and  he, 
Cesiphos,  would  be  relegated  to  the  position 
simply  of  a  paid  servant. 

But  matters  did  not  turn  out  quite  as  Cesiphos 
had  anticipated.  It  is  true  that  he  had  to  work 
for  Pabasca  as  well  as  for  his  master,  but  he  was 
mistaken  in  thinking  she  would  superintend  the 
household.  Pabasca  did  nothing  at  all.  She 
conducted  herself  like  a  Salonika  lady.  All  day 
long  she  was  idle  and  peevish,  and  whilst  Marania 
was  sweating  in  the  fields  she  was  either  lying  in 
bed  or  wandering  aimlessly  about  the  house. 

One  day  when  Cesiphos  was  working  with  the 
other  men  in  the  orchard,  he  looked  down  from 
the  ladder  on  which  he  was  standing  and  saw 
Pabasca  staring  at  him  in  a  most  curious  manner. 
He  flushed  hotly  and  went  on  with  his  work,  and 
though  he  could  feel  that  his  master's  wife"  was 
still  gazing  upon  him,  he  did  not  look  down  again. 

251 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

His  figure  stretched  to  its  full  extent  was  that  of 
a  giant,  and  his  long  arms,  busy  among  the 
branches,  were  brown  and  muscular. 

Like  many  people  of  bright  intellect  who  are 
deprived  of  one  or  more  senses,  Cesiphos  appeared 
to  possess  a  sixth  sense,  and  there  was  little  that 
transpired  in  Marania's  household  of  which  he 
was  not  conscious.  He  soon  discovered  that 
Pabasca  had  no  love  for  her  husband;  so  he 
watched  her  —  always  watched,  suspicious,  con- 
temptuous, angry. 

There  came  a  day  when  Marania  announced 
that  he  was  going  to  Salonika  for  four  days  on 
business.  When  he  signalled  this  news  to  Cesi- 
phos and  told  him  that  he  was  leaving  his  wife 
in  his  servant's  charge,  Cesiphos,  proud  and 
grave,  inclined  his  head,  and  then  turned  his 
gaze  swiftly  upon  Pabasca  who,  in  return,  gave 
him  the  curious  look  she  had  bestowed  upon  him 
in  the  orchard.  It  was  a  look  of  invitation,  of 
lust.  Cesiphos'  stern  face  did  not  betray  that 
he  had  understood,  or  even  noticed,  the  look  she 
had  given  him. 

At  midday  Marania  departed,  and  immediately 
he  had  gone  Pabasca's  spirits  rose.  She  took 
from  a  cupboard  her  three  dresses  and,  leaving 
her  bedroom  door  open,  tried  on  each  in  turn. 
Then  she  went  into  the  room  which  Cesiphos  used 
as  a  kitchen  and  prepared  herself  a  meal.  To- 
wards dusk  she  left  the  house,  but  returned  soon 
and  went  to  bed. 

Cesiphos  sat  up  smoking  his  pipe.  After  a 
time,  he  rose,  climbed  rather  noisily  upstairs,  went 
252 


THE    DEAF-MUTE   OF   KILINDIR 

to  his  room  and  closed  the  door.  For  a  little 
while  he  stood  motionless  as  though  listening; 
then,  having  taken  off  his  boots,  he  opened  his 
bedroom  door  with  elaborate  carefulness,  stepped 
on  to  the  little  landing,  closed  the  door  silently, 
and  crept  soundlessly  downstairs. 

Some  instinct  told  him  that  Pabasca  would  not 
sleep  alone  that  night,  and  he  knew  very  well  that 
her  visitor  would  be  Sobraji,  for  many  times  be- 
fore her  marriage,  Cesiphos  had  seen  her  and 
Sobraji  together  at  night  in  lonely  places.  In  all 
probability,  Pabasca  had  given  him  the  key  of 
the  front  entrance;  indeed,  when  Cesiphos  exam- 
ined the  door  and  found  it  unbolted,  he  was  sure 
of  this.  So  he  took  up  his  place  in  the  entrance 
and  waited. 

After  Cesiphos  had  waited  a  long  time,  the  door 
opened  slowly  and  Sobraji  entered.  In  the  dark- 
ness he  did  not  see  Marania's  servant  crouching 
there,  and  without  hurry  he  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him  and  locked  it. 

Then  suddenly  Cesiphos  sprang  upon  him,  his 
large  hands  encircling  Sobraji's  throat;  squeez- 
ing his  victim  hard,  he  banged  his  head  against 
the  wall,  until  the  little  man  hung  heavy  and  limp 
in  Cesiphos'  hands.  Then  the  servant  unlocked 
the  door  and  opened  it;  gathering  Sobraji  in  his 
arms,  he  threw  him  out  into  the  night  and  locked 
the  door  upon  him. 

During  his  struggle  with  Sobraji,  Cesiphos  had 
been  too  excited  to  pay  any  attention  to  Pabasca, 
who,  almost  as  soon  as  the  struggle  had  begun, 
had  come  downstairs  with  a  lamp.  She  had  stood 

253 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

quietly  by  watching  eagerly.  It  was  too  late  for 
her  to  interrupt;  indeed,  after  her  first  shock  of 
surprise  and  dismay,  she  had  no  wish  to  do  so. 
She  was  thrilled  by  Cesiphos'  strength,  by  his 
skill,  by  his  machine-like  calmness. 

Cesiphos,  having  locked  the  door,  turned  round 
and  saw  Pabasca.  The  light  of  the  lamp  fell  full 
on  her  face,  and  she  smiled  at  him.  In  return, 
he  frowned,  looked  away  from  her,  and  quickly 
made  his  way  upstairs.  He  entered  his  room  and 
closed  his  door.  Almost  immediately  Pabasca 
followed  him,  and  placed  the  lamp  upon  the  floor. 

Approaching  Cesiphos,  she  took  his  hand, 
gazed  lingeringly  into  his  eyes  for  a  moment. 
He  shook  himself  free  from  her,  and  his  eyes 
blazed.  Again  she  approached  him,  her  arms 
outstretched;  but  his  anger  became  so  fierce  and 
his  face  worked  so  terribly,  that  she  shrank  from 
him,  and,  leaving  the  lamp  on  the  floor,  hurriedly 
went  to  her  own  room. 

During  the  days  that  passed  before  Marania's 
return,  Cesiphos  went  about  his  work  with  a  grave 
face.  Whenever  he  was  in  Pabasca's  presence, 
he  averted  his  eyes.  Each  night  when  he  went 
to  rest,  she  could  hear  him  dragging  his  bed 
across  the  floor  and  fixing  it  against  the  door. 

His  simple  nature  was  badly  bruised  by  what 
had  happened.  He  had  always  known  that  life 
was  not  all  good,  but  evil  had  never  come  so  close 
to  him  as  now.  All  through  the  day  and  during 
a  portion  of  each  night  he  tortured  himself  by 
asking  how  much,  or  how  little,  he  must  tell  his 
master  when  he  returned.  Clearly  it  was  his 
254 


THE    DEAF-MUTE    OF   KILINDIR 

duty  to  disclose  to  Marania  the  conduct  of  So- 
braji,  but  it  seemed  to  him  unwise  to  tell  the  story 
in  such  a  way  that  Pabasca  would  be  implicated. 
Besides,  he  had  no  proof  that  Pabasca  had  ex- 
pected Sobraji  to  visit  her,  though  in  his  heart 
he  knew  that  an  assignation  had  been  made  and 
nearly  kept. 

Upon  one  thing  he  was  resolved :  he  would  say 
nothing  about  Pabasca's  overtures  to  himself,  for 
that  might  lead  to  unimaginable  misery  for  all 
of  them.  Nevertheless,  it  tortured  him  to  keep 
any  of  these  things  secret,  but  he  knew  not  a  soul 
to  whom  he  could  unburden  his  mind. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  Cesiphos 
slipped  unseen  from  the  house  and  went  to  the 
station  to  meet  his  master.  It  was  a  cool  eve- 
ning with  a  feeling  of  largeness  in  the  air,  but 
Cesiphos  was  weighed  down  with  anxiety  and 
nervousness.  How  much  should  he  tell?  In 
what  manner  should  he  tell  it?  Should  he  break 
straight  into  the  subject,  or  should  he  introduce 
it  in  a  roundabout  fashion? 

These  questions  which  he  had  been  asking  him- 
self for  four  days  were  still  unanswered  when  he 
saw  Marania,  carrying  two  very  large  parcels, 
step  from  the  train.  Cesiphos  hurried  up  to  him, 
and  Marania  placed  both  parcels  on  the  ground 
whilst  he  shook  hands  with  his  servant.  He  was 
in  good  spirits  and  glad  to  be  home  again.  Cesi- 
phos, having  picked  up  one  of  the  parcels,  led  the 
way  from  the  station,  his  chin  upon  his  breast,  his 
heart  heavy  within  him. 

They  had  covered  but  a  short  distance  when 

255 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

Cesiphos  plucked  his  master's  sleeve  and  indicated 
that  he  wished  to  speak  with  him.  With  a  sigh 
of  impatience,  Marania  put  his  package  on  the 
ground  and  sat  upon  it.  Cesiphos  followed  his 
example,  and  began  to  talk  on  his  fingers  by  the 
light  of  the  moon. 

"  Master,  I  have  something  I  would  tell 
you." 

Marania  bowed  his  head. 

'  Very  late  in  the  night  following  the  day  you 
left,  Sobraji  entered  your  house.  He  had  a  key, 
the  door  was  unbolted." 

He  stopped,  hoping  his  master  would  say  some- 
thing; but  Marania  only  stared  at  him  wonder- 
ingly  and  again  bowed  his  head. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  him.  ..." 

Marania  interrupted  his  servant  by  placing  a 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Why  were  you  waiting  for  him?" 

Cesiphos  fumbled  with  his  fingers,  but  spelled 
out  not  a  single  word.  Marania  struck  him 
lightly  on  the  arm  and  again  asked: 

"Why?" 

"  Because  .  .  .  because,  somehow,  I  thought 
he  was  coming.  The  door  was  unbolted." 

His  master  shook  him  angrily. 

''Why  were  you  waiting  for  him?"  he  asked 
a  third  time.  "  How  did  you  know  he  was  com- 
ing?  " 

Cesiphos  began  to  tremble.  He  did  not  know 
why  he  had  believed  Sobraji  would  come  that 
night.  Something  in  his  mind  had  whispered  it 
to  him  —  instinct,  suspicion,  hatred.  But  he 
256 


THE    DEAF-MUTE   OF   KILINDIR 

could  not  explain  this  to  Marania.  So  he  sat 
fumbling  with  his  fingers.  At  length  his  master 
signed  to  him: 

"  Go  on  with  your  story." 

"  I  was  waiting  for  him  behind  the  door.  He 
entered  and  closed  it  after  him.  I  sprang  upon 
him  and  nearly  choked  him.  I  banged  his  head 
against  the  wall.  Then  I  opened  the  door  and 
threw  him  outside." 

"Does  your  mistress  know  of  this?" 

'  Yes.  She  came  down  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand 
and  watched  us." 

His  hands  stopped  working.  Very  deliberately 
Marania  rose,  lifted  his  parcel  and  proceeded  on 
his  way  home,  Cesiphos  followed  him  in  deep  de- 
jection. The  servant  knew  that  his  master  had 
not  accepted  his  story:  yet  it  was  true  —  every 
word  of  it. 

They  soon  reached  Marania's  farm.  Pabasca 
was  waiting  outside  to  receive  her  husband.  She 
ran  to  him  with  a  cry  of  delight  and  threw  her 
arms  about  his  neck.  He  embraced  her,  at  first 
tenderly,  then  with  passion. 

In  the  meantime,  Cesiphos  had  carried  his  pack- 
age into  the  house  and  had  begun  to  prepare  food 
for  his  master.  It  was  with  a  great  effort  that 
he  moved  his  body  about,  so  sick  he  felt,  so  dis- 
mayed, so  full  of  apprehension.  Through  the 
open  door  he  saw  his  master  and  mistress  go  to 
their  living-room.  He  could  feel  them  talking  to- 
gether. For  a  long  time  they  talked  until,  sud- 
denly, with  blazing  eyes,  Marania  entered,  rushed 
up  to  his  serveant  and  dealt  him  a  heavy  blow  be- 

257 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

tween  the  eyes.  Cesiphos  staggered  and  fell. 
He  rose,  whimpering. 

Marania  then  went  to  the  entrance-door  and 
opened  it  wide.  Pointing  with  one  hand  to  the 
door,  he  seized  his  servant  with  the  other  and 
violently  dragged  him  into  the  passage.  Still 
whimpering  Cesiphos  stumbled  into  the  night. 
The  master  whom  he  had  loved  and  served  now 
hated  him. 

Marania  locked  and  bolted  the  door,  and  re- 
turned to  his  wife. 

But  though  she  was  weeping  he  would  not  com- 
fort her,  and  that  night  and  for  ever  afterwards 
he  slept  in  the  room  that  Cesiphos  'had  occupied. 


258 


LA    BELLE 
DAME    SANS   MERCI 


To 

G.  A.  E.  Marshall 


IT  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  most  extraor- 
dinary thing  that  Victor  Lovelace  should 
have  been  able  to  speak  five  languages.  He 
was  English,  and  Englishmen  are  notoriously 
stupid  in  this  respect.  But  Lovelace  spoke  his 
languages  perfectly,  and  as  he  was  extremely  oblig- 
ing and  full  of  information  he  was  far  and  away 
the  most  popular  waiter  at  the  Jupiter  Hotel  in 
Athens. 

I  have  never  believed  Lovelace  was  his  real 
name;  but  that  concerns  neither  you  nor  me. 
Lovelace  has  a  romantic  sound,  and  this  young 
man  of  twenty-three  looked  romantic.  Tall  he 
was  and  slim:  he  carried  himself  well:  unlike  all 
the  other  waiters  in  the  whole  world,  he  looked 
you  in  the  eyes  when  he  spoke  to  you,  and  the  eyes 
that  looked  into  yours  were  large,  brilliant,  and 
unquestionably  full  of  passion. 

In  April  1914,  I  stayed  at  the  Jupiter  Hotel, 
and  at  dinner  on  the  day  of  my  arrival  I  sat  down 
at  a  table  occupied  solely  by  an  Englishwoman 
who  appeared  to  be  travelling  alone.  Lovelace 
waited  on  us.  Before  we  were  half-way  through 
our  dinner  I  was  convinced  that  the  English- 
woman —  her  name  was  Dorothy  Langdon  —  was 
in  love  with  him.  Whenever  he  brought  her  food, 
she  looked  quickly  up  into  his  eyes,  and  once  I  ob- 
served her  touch  his  hand  lingeringly  as  she  as- 
sisted him  in  supporting  the  dish  from  which  she 
was  helping  herself  to  vegetables. 

I  confess  I  was  interested:  people  always  do  in- 
terest me.  And  I  said  to  myself:  "  Is  this  love? 
Or  is  it  passion- —  a  very  frenzy  of  the  senses?  " 

261 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

Lovelace,  for  his  part,  showed  neither  desire 
nor  distress.  Perhaps  he  was  a  little  more  as- 
siduous in  his  waiting  on  the  lady  than  he  was 
in  attending  to  my  wants;  but  this  might  mean 
simply  that  she  was  a  woman  and  I  was  merely 
a  man. 

During  dinner  Miss  Langdon  and  I  talked. 

"You  arrived  to-day?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  came  from  Marseilles  by  the  Ispahan. 
Do  you  know  the  Messageries  Maritimes  boats?  " 

"Jolly  little  things,  aren't  they?"  she  said, 
smiling.  "  I  like  the  cosmopolitan  passengers 
they  carry,  and  I  love  curry  for  breakfast." 

She  was  very  fair.  Her  neck,  wrists  and  ankles 
were  exquisite,  as  thoroughbred  as  the  human  an- 
imal can  ever  hope  to  be. 

"  What  I  liked  most  of  all,"  said  I,  "  was  the 
rummy  little  music  room  on  the  deck  with  the  piano 
that  made  such  tender,  melting  sounds.  I  used 
to  feel  tremendously  sentimental  in  the  evenings. 
There  was  an  Italian  girl  who  sang  Neapolitan 
songs  as  though  she  really  meant  them." 

"  I  know,"  she  said  eagerly;  "  wouldn't  it  be 
fine  if  all  life  were  like  that?  But  I  suppose  it 
wouldn't,  really.  Sweetness  so  soon  cloys." 

'  Yes,"  I  agreed,  "  we  all  require  bitter  days 
in  between:  they  add  zest  to  our  appetite  when 
the  good  days  come  along." 

We  talked  obvious  things  of  this  kind  all 
through  the  meal. 

'  Will   Madame   have   coffee   here   or   in   the 
lounge?"  asked  Lovelace  when  we  had  finished 
our  fruit. 
262 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  divinely,  and 
in  return  he  smiled  a  pleasant  English  smile  that 
meant  nothing  of  what  she  wished  it  to  mean. 

"  It  all  depends  on  Monsieur,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  me.  "  Shall  we  have  coffee  here?  " 

"  As  you  please,"  said  I. 

"  Very  well,  then,  here." 

She  took  the  cigarette  case  that  was  lying  on 
the  table  at  her  side  and  offered  me  a  smoke. 

'This  hotel  is  very  pleasant,"  she  remarked; 
"  have  you  ever  stayed  here  before?  " 

"  No,  this  is  my  first  visit  to  Athens.  And 
you?" 

"  I  also  have  never  been  here  before." 

Our  little  table  was  in  a  corner  of  the  room 
farthest  away  from  the  door.  All  the  diners  ex- 
cept ourselves  had  left.  Lovelace  stood  some 
little  way  off,  waiting  I  suppose,  to  minister  to 
our  possible  wants.  Suddenly,  he  put  down  the 
table-napkin  he  was  holding,  and  began  to  move 
towards  the  door.  Though  my  companion  was 
not  facing  him,  she  saw  —  or  felt  —  his  with- 
drawal. 

"  Lovelace !  "  she  called  softly. 

He  turned  and  approached  our  table. 

'  Where  are  you  going?  "  she  asked. 

;<  To  wait  on  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the 
lounge,"  he  answered. 

"  Must  you  go?" 

"  Not  if  Madame  desires  me  to  stay." 

'  You  may  please  yourself,  of  course.  But  if 
you  went  I  should  miss  you." 

Without  embarrassment  he  bowed,  walked  a 

263 


few  paces  away,  and  stationed  himself  out  of  reach 
of  our  talk. 

I  do  not  think  my  attempt  to  look  unconcerned 
was  entirely  successful,  and  I  betrayed  myself,  I 
am  sure,  by  asking: 

"  Have  you  been  here  very  long?  " 

(What  I  meant,  of  course,  was :  "  Do  you  know 
Lovelace  well?  "). 

"  Just  five  days,"  she  said,  as  though  I  had 
asked  the  most  ordinary  question  in  the  world. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  she  asked:  "I  surprise 
you?" 

"No,  why?" 

She  smiled. 

'  You  lie  so  well,"  she  said,  "  that  I  feel  I  can 
trust  you." 

I  feebly  protested  my  sincerity. 

"  I  knew  him  last  year  in  Oxford,"  she  ex- 
plained; "but  he  refuses  to  know  me  now.  He 
is  afraid  of  me." 

"  Surely  not !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Why  should  he 
be  afraid?" 

She  did  not  answer  me,  but  went  on  to  speak 
of  other  things. 

14  Will  you  promise  me  something?  "  she  asked. 

"  Of  course  I  will.     What  is  it?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  always  to  sit  at  this 
table  for  your  meals.  They  never  lay  more  than 
two  places  here.  If  you  speak  to  the  head  waiter, 
he  will  reserve  that  place  for  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  I  said;  "  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted.    Thanks  awfully  for  asking  me." 
264 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI 

And,  this  time,  I  meant  every  word  I  said. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  rose  from  the  table  and 
prepared  to  leave  the  room.  She  preceded  me, 
and,  in  passing  Lovelace,  gazed  at  him  with  a 
look  so  despairing  and  beseeching  that  I  could  but 
wonder  he  maintained  so  undisturbed  a  counte- 
nance. 

Having  reached  the  door,  she  turned. 

"  Good  night,  Lovelace,"  she  said. 

And  behind  me  I  heard  his  voice,  low  and 
grave : 

"  Good  night,  Madame." 


If  she  was  beautiful  that  night,  she  was  still 
more  beautiful  next  morning  at  breakfast.  Poets 
have  described  the  kind  of  woman  she  was:  I 
cannot.  I  can  but  give  you  a  few  clumsy  hints. 
She  was  as  delicate  as  porcelain.  Her  hair  had 
the  colour  and  the  sheen  of  polished  brass,  and 
her  face,  when  composed,  was  all  innocence  and 
trust.  Her  innocence  was  a  lure.  One  felt  her 
sex.  In  the  corner  of  her  lips  there  lurked  a  mys- 
terious suggestion  of  cruelty  —  or  was  it  of  hun- 
ger? 

Though  she  chattered  a  good  deal  whilst  we 
ate,  I  felt  that  she  was  preoccupied.  Whenever 
Lovelace  approached  her,  she  seemed  to  expand 
and  open  like  a  flower  in  the  sun;  whenever  he 
withdrew,  she  closed  in  upon  herself  again.  She 
rarely  spoke  to  him  without  addressing  him  by 
name. 

26$ 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

Of  the  two  it  was  he  who  interested  me  most, 
and  after  breakfast  I  sought  an  opportunity  of 
talking  to  him. 

I  asked  him  about  —  the  best  means  of 
getting  there,  its  distance  from  Athens,  and  so  on. 

He  answered  my  questions  with  politeness,  but 
without  deference;  his  manner  was  easy,  even 
polished.  It  was  quite  evident  he  was  a  gentle- 
man, and  a  gentleman  of  culture  and  experience. 

I  told  him  that  I  had  recently  attended  a 
course  of  lectures  at  Oxford  on  the  social  life 
of  ancient  Athens,  and  at  the  word  Oxford  he 
started  a  little  and  flushed.  A  minute  later  I 
noticed  he  was  trembling  and  that  his  cheeks  were 
pale. 

"  She  is  getting  on  his  nerves,"  I  said  to  myself. 

I  had  little  compunction  in  trying  to  solve  this 
mystery,  for  I  had,  so  to  speak,  been  dragged  in 
to  sit  and  watch  its  development.  And  after  my 
ten  minutes'  conversation  with  Lovelace  I  formed 
the  theory  that  he  was  as  deeply  in  love  with 
Miss  Langdon  as  she  was  with  him;  but  whereas 
her  love  was  mingled  with  triumph  and  cruelty, 
his  was  strained  with  fear.  His  love  urged  him 
to  remain,  but  his  fear,  I  thought,  was  continually 
warning  him  to  escape. 

Though  I  had  business  elsewhere,  I  returned 
to  the  Hotel  Jupiter  for  lunch,  thinking  I  might 
witness  the  "  curtain "  of  the  first  act  of  this 
almost  silent  drama;  but  she  did  not  appear. 
Lovelace  was  pale  and,  I  thought,  anxious;  but 
he  kept  himself  so  well  under  control,  and  he 
smiled  so  pleasantly  when  I  made  a  joke  about 
266 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI 

King  Constantine,  whom  I  had  that  morning  seen 
outside  the  Palace,  that  I  felt  his  seeming  anxiety 
must  be  only  the  product  of  my  imagination. 
His  attitude  towards  me  ,was  both  aloof  and 
friendly:  he  was  determined  to  keep  his  "  place," 
yet  I  was  sure  he  liked  me.  I  had  copies  of  that 
month's  Fortnightly  Review  and  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury in  my  bedrom,  also  three  or  four  recent  num- 
bers of  Punch;  these  I  brought  downstairs  and 
gave  to  him,  though  I  remember  that,  as  I  did  so, 
the  thought  flashed  into  my  mind  that  I  might  ap- 
pear to  him  to  be  trying  to  purchase  his  confidence. 
But  if  he  had  such  a  suspicion,  he  did  not  show  it. 

I  spent  that  afternoon  in  the  Museum,  visiting 
the  Temple  of  Jupiter  before  returning  to  the 
hotel.  The  enervating  climate  of  Athens  in  the 
early  spring  had  tired  me,  and  I  felt  a  little  de- 
pressed as  I  walked  across  the  Palace  Square.  On 
entering  the  hotel  I  heard  a  woman's  voice  sing- 
ing in  the  drawing-room.  Opening  the  door,  I 
discovered  Miss  Langdon,  the  only  occupant  of 
the  room,  sitting  at  the  piano,  accompanying  her- 
self. Seeing  me,  she  rose. 

"  May  I  come  in  and  listen?  "  I  asked. 

"  Do.  I  love  having  an  audience.  Do  you 
play?" 

'  Yes.  Rather  well.  At  least,  I  accompany 
well.  You  were  singing  Reynaldo  Hahn,  weren't 
you?" 

'Yes  —  I've  only  just  got  to  know  him. 
Rather  like  overripe  fruit,  don't  you  think? 
Only,  of  course,  the  very  best  fruit." 

She  laughed. 

267 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Come  and  play  for  me,"  she  said. 

"  Thanks  awfully.  I  was  hoping  you  would 
ask  me  to." 

Quite  the  most  exciting  occupation  in  the  world 
is  to  read  new  pianoforte  music  for  a  good  singer. 
Reynaldo  Hahn  is  the  most  atmospheric  of  com- 
posers, the  most  delicate,  the  most  decadent:  not 
a  great  man,  of  course,  but  an  interesting  man. 
Like  my  companion's  voice,  his  music  has  no 
colour:  it  consists  of  whites,  blacks,  and  innumer- 
able shades  of  grey. 

"  You  play  almost  as  well  as  I  sing,"  she  re- 
marked, after  we  had  gone  through  an  entire 
volume  of  songs. 

"You  make  me  play  well,"  I  said;  "you  are 
sympathetic.  That's  a  silly  word  —  but  you 
know  what  I  mean." 

"  But  it's  really  very  heartless  music,"  said  she; 
"  it's  so  sentimental,  so  insincere.  It  suits  me. 
I  can't  do  the  real  things  —  not  even  the  mod- 
ern people  —  Hugo  Wolfe,  for  example.  The 
great  men  lacerate  me  so,  and  I  don't  like  being 
lacerated." 

"  No,"  said  I  mischievously,  "  you'd  rather 
lacerate  other  people.  Your  friend  from  Oxford 
for  example." 

"Ah!  Lovelace,  you  mean.  I  thought  you 
would  be  curious  about  him." 

'Well,  I  confess  it:  I  am  curious." 

She  laughed  teasingly. 

"  If  you  wait  long  enough,  you  will  find  out 
everything.     But  there  goes  the  first  dinner-gong, 
and  you're  not  dressed." 
268 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS  MERCI 

I  hurried  away  to  change.     Though  I  dressed 
as  speedily  as  possible,  the  dinner  had  begun  when 
I   entered  the   dining-room.     As  I   noticed  that 
Lovelace  was  bending  low  over  the  table  at  which 
Miss  Langdon  sat,  and  that  she  was  speaking  to 
him  with   some   vehemence,   I   approached   them 
very  slowly  and  deliberately;  even  so,  their  con- 
versation was  not  finished  when  I  had  sat  down  at 
my  place. 

"...  And  what  happened  to  Walter  had 
nothing  to  do  with  me,"  she  protested,  though 
she  knew  I  was  present;  "  and  if  it  had  —  what 
then?  Am  I  to  love  all  the  men  who  love  me? 
Are  men  children  that  they  require  nurses?  " 

"No,  Madame,"  he  said.  "Will  Madame 
take  thick  or  clear  soup?  " 

"  I  will  take  no  soup  at  all.  Write  down  your 
answer  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  bring  it  with  the 
entree." 

He  departed,  white  and  trembling,  and  for  a 
minute  my  sympathy  was  entirely  with  him. 

'  What  surprises  me,"  I  said  to  her,  "  is  that 
you  asked  me  always  to  sit  at  your  table." 

Though  a  minute  previously  she  had  been  speak- 
ing passionately,  almost  angrily,  to  Lovelace,  she 
now  turned  to  me  a  face  at  once  gentle  and  be- 
seeching. 

"  Do  you  mind?  "  she  asked. 

II  Well  —  no.     To  be  perfectly  frank,  you  do 
make  me  feel  a  little  uncomfortable.     Lovelace 
is  a  gentleman.     Even  if  he  weren't,  I  shouldn't 
like  to  interrupt  your  private  conversations  with 
him." 

269 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  But  you  don't,"  she  protested. 

"  Well,  then,  I  don't  like  overhearing  them." 

"  That,"  said  she,  "  is  unavoidable.  Believe 
me,  you  are  doing  me  a  kindness  by  sharing  my 
table.  If  you  didn't  sit  there  somebody  else 
would  —  and  I  trust  you.  Really,  you  are  doing 
me  a  great  kindness." 

"  Very  well,  then.  If  that  is  the  case,  I  don't 
mind  —  or,  at  all  events,  I  shall  try  to  mind  as 
little  as  possible." 

Presently,  Lovelace  brought  our  entrees. 

;'  Where  is  my  answer?  "  she  asked. 

Without  a  moment's  pause,  he  replied: 

"  The  answer,  Madame,  is  '  No.' ' 

"  But,"  said  she  firmly,  as  though  stating  an 
incontrovertible  fact,  "  but  you  will  change  your 
mind." 

When  he  had  left  our  table,  she  turned  to  me 
with  a  smile. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  love?  "  she  asked. 

;<  Well,  I  have  often  thought  I  was  in  love. 
But  it  soon  passed.  It  always  passes." 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

Immediately  after  dinner  she  disappeared. 

The  night  was  ghostly  with  a  swollen  moon. 
Looking  from  my  bedroom  window  at  about  ten 
o'clock  I  saw  white  buildings  with  ink-black  shad- 
ows. The  streets  were  almost  deserted.  Some- 
body out  there  was  singing  a  restless  song,  and 
the  restlessness  of  the  music  awakened  in  me  an 
almost  insufferable  pain  —  an  ache  —  a  dark  tur- 
bulence of  the  spirit.  I  felt  my  heart  beating 
wildly,  and  in  my  soul  there  was  a  deep  desire  to 
270 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS  MERCI 

scatter  myself  on  the  night.  What  was  the  mat- 
ter? Was  I  in  love  once  more?  And  if  so,  with 
what?  —  with  whom?  .  .  .  When  one  asks  ques- 
tions of  this  kind,  one  already  knows  the  answers; 
nevertheless,  one  does  not  stop  asking  those  ques- 
tions. I  was  in  love  with  her. 

I  left  my  room  and  sought  her  vainly  in  the 
lounge  and  in  the  drawing-room.  Then  I  went  to 
the  deserted  entrance-hall  and  thence  to  the  open 
door.  On  the  top  step  Lovelace  was  standing 
irresolutely,  his  hat  on.  I  stepped  up  to  him. 

"  Don't  go !  "  I  said  in  a  low  voice. 

It  was  a  random  shot,  but  it  hit  the  mark. 

"  I  don't  wish  to,"  he  said,  "  but  she  draws 
and  pulls." 

He  was  trembling  violently. 

"  I  thought  of  visiting  the  Acropolis,"  I  said, 
though  indeed  I  had  no  such  thought. 

"  After  dusk  one  requires  a  ticket  to  pass 
through  the  gates,"  he  said.  "  She  is  there.  She 
will  be  standing  like  one  of  the  Caryatides,  the 
moon  on  her  face,  hatless.  And  perhaps  her  feet 
will  be  bare." 

"  Oh,  but  this  is  madness !  "  I  exclaimed. 
"  What  is  she  to  you  or  you  to  her?  " 

"  I  wonder,"  he  answered  helplessly.  Then, 
obeying  an  impulse  he  seemed  unable  to  control, 
he  held  out  a  ticket. 

"  Take  this !  "  he  said.  "  It  will  admit  you 
through  the  gates.  She  will  be  waiting." 

"  No,"  said  I.     "  It  is  you  she  wants." 

"  But  I  can't  go.  I  may  not.  I  daren't.  I 
told  her  I  wouldn't." 

271 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

And,  with  a  deep  sigh,  he  turned  and  walked 
into  the  hotel. 

All  that  night  I  lay  midway  between  reality 
and  dreams.  My  senses  mingled,  and  I  knew  not 
what  was  reality  and  what  was  phantasy.  Was 
it  possible  I  should  see  her  at  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing? Was  there  really  such  a  woman  or  had  I 
imagined  her?  Had  I  been  dreaming  these  last 
thirty-six  hours? 

The  spirit  of  her  was  in  my  brain  and  in  my 
veins  like  a  drug.  At  length  I  must  have  slept, 
for  I  heard  whisperings  and  a  voice  of  menace, 
and  again  a  loud  voice  threatening  mankind  and 
me,  and  then  voluptuous  sighings  and  secret  whis- 
perings; maenads  rushed  to  and  fro  in  ghostly 
meadows,  and  on  them  the  moon  poured  golden 
blood;  and  then  again  the  voice  reached  me  and 
each  word  it  uttered  was  like  a  heavy  weight  fall- 
ing upon  my  bleeding  heart. 

I  awoke  and  sat  up  in  bed  and: 

"  Lovelace !  Lovelace !  "  I  heard,  or  seemed 
to  hear,  breathed  through  the  corridor. 

'  The  huntress!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  The  authen- 
tic vampire !  The  incarnation  of  hungry  sex  !  " 

Shuddering  I  rose,  raised  the  blind  and  leant 
through  the  open  window.  The  world  outside 
was  unreal:  it  brought  me  no  solace.  The  houses 
were  insubstantial;  the  solidity  of  my  own  body 
was  incommunicable  to  my  senses;  all  the  world 
was  an  illusion;  nothing  existed  save  the  brain  that 
had  placed  things  there.  .  .  . 


272 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI 

A  cold  bath  early  next  morning  did  little  to  re- 
store my  nerves  to  health.  My  soul  was  sick:  it 
was  covered  with  indestructible  dust  from  the 
vampire's  wings. 

I  arrived  at  our  table  before  she  did.  Love- 
lace brought  me  food.  Though  his  manner  was 
calm,  his  face  was  deathly  pale.  Had  he,  like 
myself,  been  agonized  through  the  night?  I 
spoke  to  him,  and  he  looked  into  my  eyes  dis- 
trustfully. 

"  I  am  going  to  Eleusis  to-day,"  I  said.  "  Can 
you  get  a  few  sandwiches  made  up  for  me?  And 
some  fruit  and  a  bottle  of  wine?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly.  I  will  tell  the  head  waiter. 
But  be  careful.  Don't  go  into  any  of  the  cot- 
tages, for  fever  is  raging  there." 

'  Thanks,  I  won't.  ...  I  say,  Lovelace."  I 
spoke  low,  and  he  bent  down  to  catch  my  words. 
"  Lovelace,  I  say.  Tell  me :  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  all  this  —  of  everything?  Do  you  not  be- 
lieve I  am  your  friend?  " 

"  But  you  love  her!  " 

"  Or  hate  her !  "  I  exclaimed.     "  Which  is  it?  " 
'  They  are  both  the  same,"  he  said. 

And  then,  most  quietly  and  with  a  wild  maenad- 
look  in  her  eyes  and  about  her  lips,  she  sat  down 
and: 

"  Good  morning,  Lovelace,"  she  said. 

"  Good  morning,  Madame." 

I  could  see  that  he  was  putting  forth  a  great 
effort  in  order  to  master  himself. 

She  turned  to  me  and  began  to  talk  of  the 
weather.  With  difficulty  I  met  her  gaze.  Yes, 

273 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

there  was  a  wild  look  in  her  eyes;  it  was  as  though 
she  had  learned  some  secret  in  the  night.  Though 
she  sat  quite  calmly,  she  seemed  to  be  shedding 
vitality  all  around  her.  Her  presence  quickened 
me.  And  the  sound  of  her  voice  was  both  a  lure 
and  an  excitement. 

"  I  am  going  to  Eleusis  to-day,"  I  told  her, 
"  but  I  shall  be  back  for  dinner." 

"  And  what  do  you  expect  to  find  there?  " 

"  Not  very  much,  I'm  afraid.  Just  a  heap  of 
broken  marble." 

"  But  underneath  the  marble  are  the  Mysteries 
—  the  Eleusinian  Mysteries.  Do  you  know  what 
they  were?  " 

"No,"  said  I;  "does  anyone?" 

'  Yes :  I  do.  They  were  sex  mysteries.  The 
Ancient  Greeks  worshipped  woman  in  the  form 
of  a  goddess.  They  sacrificed  to  her.  In  those 
days  they  feared  women,  and  they  were  contin- 
ually trying  to  propitiate  them.  But  since  then 
they  have  tamed  my  sex.  Only  a  few  of  us  re- 


main. 

u  « 


Us'?  "I  queried. 

"  Yes  —  the  devastators  —  the  women  who 
have  no  use  for  a  man  once  they  have  known  him. 
You  have  heard  of  the  marriage  in  the  sky?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  The  queen  bee  marries  the  best  male  of  the 
hive  high  in  the  blue  of  heaven,  out  of  sight. 
The  ecstasy  over,  the  male  drops  down  to  earth, 
dead.  You  will  find  it  all  in  Fabre." 

"Yes?     And  then?" 

"  Nothing  —  that's  the  end  of  it." 
274 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI 

"Was  that  the  end  of  Walter?"  I  asked, 
goaded  on  by  I  know  not  what.  And,  as  she  did 
not  reply,  I  added:  "Is  that  to  be  the  end  of 
Lovelace?  Is  that  why  he  is  afraid  of  you?  Do 
you  carry  about  with  you  some  evil  spell?  —  some 
enchantment  of  death?  " 

She  drew  away  from  me  a  little  and  sat  back 
in  her  chair. 

4  You  are  afraid  of  me,"  she  said. 

"  I  think  not,"  I  answered,  "  but  you  disturb 
my  dreams.  Most  horribly  you  disturb  them." 

"  So  already  it  has  begun  to  work  on  you,"  she 
said  with  mild  interest. 

"Have  you  cast  a  spell  upon  me?"  I  asked. 
"Am  I  in  a  state  of  semi-hypnosis?" 

"  I  have  done  nothing.  It  is  not  you  whom  I 
want.  It  is  Lovelace." 

I  made  but  a  scanty  meal,  and  as  I  walked  to 
the  station  I  was  resolved  that  Miss  Langdon 
should  not  enter  my  thoughts  all  day.  She  had 
spoken  the  truth:  I  was  afraid  of  her.  I  feared 
her  as  the  drunkard  fears  alcohol,  as  the  morphino- 
maniac  fears  his  drug. 

But  who  can  command  his  thoughts  when  those 
thoughts  have  for  their  breeding-place  senses  that 
have  been  whipped  to  excitement  by  the  invita- 
tion of  sex?  I  was  unhappy  all  day. 

From  Eleusis  I  walked  along  a  narrow  track 
to  the  sea.  I  bathed,  and  then  sat  naked  in  the 
sun.  Again  I  bathed  among  the  rocks,  and  once 
more  sat  gazing  upon  the  blue  islands  and  the 
purple  islands  and  the  green  land  near.  No  hu- 
man being  was  in  sight,  no  dwelling-place,  no 

275 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

sign  of  life.     Even  the  sky  was  empty  of  birds. 

It  was  not  difficult  for  me  to  imagine  it  was 
two  thousand  years  ago.  Then  everything  — 
sky,  sea,  and  land  —  would  appear  exactly  as  it 
did  now.  Perhaps  in  those  times  men  were  wiser 
than  they  are  to-day.  True,  mankind  had  col- 
lected and  co-ordinated  a  few  million  facts  un- 
known to  the  men  and  women  who  worshipped 
and  sacrificed  in  the  Temple  of  Demeter,  but, 
after  all,  what  are  facts?  Are  they  not  the  very 
masks  of  truth,  as  a  man's  face  is  the  mask  of  his 
soul?  .  .  . 

Almost  could  I  see  her  in  the  divine  Temple, 
worshipped  and  feared.  .  .  .  Woman  enthroned; 
man  on  his  knees,  craving  a  boon.  Woman  in 
league  with  Nature:  man  Nature's  victim. 
Woman  accepting;  man  giving.  .  .  . 

I  dressed,  and  ate  the  food  I  had  brought 
with  me.  The  wine  enervated  me,  and  soon  I 
slept. 

Again  she  sent  her  thoughts  to  me,  and  my 
dreams  were  soaked  through  and  through  with 
her  rapacious  personality.  I  was  being  nailed 
down  under  a  rich  carpet  in  Samarcand.  In  an- 
other room  of  the  Palace  were  proud  music  -and 
rejoicings.  .  .  . 

Haunted  myself  by  those  dreams,  I  will  not 
stain  this  page  by  recording  them.  .  .  . 

I  awoke. 

"  If  sleep  means  this,"  I  exclaimed  aloud,  "  I'll 
sleep  no  more." 

On  my  way  back  to  Athens  I  told  myself  that 
on  the  following  day  I  would  set  out  for  Corinth. 
276 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI 

I  would  escape.  But  I  must  see  the  Parthenon 
first.  I  would  borrow  Lovelace's  ticket  and  go 
to-night.  There  would  be  a  moon.  .  .  . 

There  were  no  bounds  to  my  relief  when  Love- 
lace, bringing  me  my  soup  at  dinner-time  told  me, 
in  answer  to  my  inquiry,  that  Miss  Langdon  was 
resting. 

"  Madame  has  a  headache,"  he  said,  "  and  will 
dine  in  her  own  room." 

Immeasurable  relief  —  yes!  But  profound 
disappointment  and  anxiety  also! 

What  an  unaccountable  hunger  mine  was ! 
Love-hunger !  The  wish  to  love  what  one  fears 
and  perhaps  hates! 

'  You  look  ill,  Lovelace,"  I  said. 

"  I  am  feeling  ill,"  he  confessed. 

"  And  so  am  I.  Not  sick  in  body,  but  sick  in 
soul." 

"  I  also,"  he  said. 

"  Come  nearer,  Lovelace.  Bend  down. 
Now  —  "  I  lowered  my  voice  almost  to  a  whisper 
—  "  won't  you  tell  me?  Please  tell  me." 

"  It's  happened  before  in  the  world,"  he  said, 
"  many  times.  Keats  wrote  about  it  in  his  '  La 
Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci.'  " 

"  But  this  is  different,"  I  urged. 

u  No,  I  think  not.     It  is  much  the  same." 

"  But   that  was  poetry  and  this  is  madness." 

"  All  things  are  very  much  the  same.  Even 
fire  and  water  are  not  so  much  opposed  as  we 
sometimes  believe,  and  I  remember  being  taught 
at  school  that  diamonds  and  charcoal  are  first 
cousins." 

277 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"Yes  —  but  about  Walter.  Who  was  Wal- 
ter? What  did  she  do  to  him?  " 

"  She  killed  him,"  said  Lovelace;  "  he  shot  him- 
self. He  was  my  brother." 

"  Oh,  do  forgive  me  for  asking  you.  I  had  no 
idea  —  I  say,  Lovelace,  I'm  leaving  to-morrow. 
I  can't  stand  it  any  longer." 

"  You  are  very  wise.     I  am  going  also." 

He  moved  away  —  this  man  who  was  a  stranger 
to  me,  but  whom  I  seemed  to  know  so  well. 

I  could  eat  very  little,  so  I  left  the  dining-room 
for  the  lounge,  where  I  ordered  a  large  brandy- 
and-soda.  I  stayed  there  smoking  and  drinking 
for  some  time,  but  she  did  not  come,  and,  at 
length,  I  rose  and  sought  Lovelace.  He  was 
wandering  about  aimlessly  in  the  hall. 

"  I'm  going  to  the  Acropolis,"  I  said;  "  would 
you  be  so  kind  as  to  lend  me  your  ticket  —  that 
is,  if  you  are  not  going  to  use  it  yourself." 

He  gave  me  a  strange,  inquiring  look. 

"  Certainly.     I  have  it  with  me  —  here  it  is." 

I  went  alone,  half  hoping,  wholly  fearing,  that 
Miss  Langdon  might  be  there. 

Passing  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  I  walked  up  the 
steep  road  that  winds  along  the  side  of  the  Acrop- 
olis. Nothing  stirred.  The  moon  seemed  to  be 
fixed  in  the  sky  by  its  own  cold  passion.  The  thick 
dust  on  the  road  looked  like  powdered  silver.  A 
few  crickets  chirped.  Up  above,  within  the 
Parthenon  itself  no  doubt,  a  man  was  singing  one 
of  the  Dichterliebe.  It  was  a  night  of  intoler- 
able heartache.  My  soul  seemed  to  melt  and 
diffuse  itself  through  every  part  of  my  body.  .  .  . 
278 


LA   BELLE   DAME   SANS   MERCI 

I  arrived  at  the  gates  and,  refusing  the  proffered 
services  of  a  guide,  was  admitted.  Above  me 
the  columns  of  the  Parthenon  gleamed  coldly  in 
the  light  of  the  moon.  I  mounted  the  marble 
steps,  reached  the  nearest  column,  and  touched 
it.  For  a  moment  I  felt  soothed.  Sitting  down, 
I  pondered  on  that  turn  of  Fate  which  had 
brought  me  to  Athens,  had  directed  me  to  that 
hotel,  had  guided  me  to  that  table.  Even  here 
where  I  sat  her  spirit  was  about  me.  Oh,  if  only 
she  were  there  by  my  side !  If  only  my  lips  were 
on  hers  and  her  hand  on  my  heart! 

Almost  suffocated  with  longing,  I  arose  and 
wandered  to  and  fro,  looking  at  everything,  but 
seeing  nothing. 

Then,  near  the  Caryatides,  I  stumbled  upon 
her.  She  was  lying  full-length  on  the  ground. 

"  So  you  have  come,  Victor,"  she  said. 

For  a  moment  I  paused,  breathless  and  afraid. 

"No:  it  is  I." 

'You?" 

"  Lovelace  lent  me  his  ticket." 

'Thinking  he  himself  would  escape?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  thought.  I  am  not  in 
Lovelace's  confidence." 

"  Sit  down  by  my  side !  "  she  commanded. 

I  dropped  to  the  ground  and  lay  down;  my 
lips  closed  on  hers;  she  rested  in  my  arms. 
Neither  of  us  spoke ;  nor  did  we  move.  For  some 
minutes  we  had  remained  thus,  when  I  began  to 
experience  a  sensation  of  vague  discomfort  which 
rapidly  changed  to  one  of  fear.  Something  in- 
imical and  powerful  emanated  from  her  body  to 

279 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

mine.  I  withdrew  my  lips  and  she  sought  them 
with  hers.  I  slackened  my  arms  and  hers  tight- 
ened about  me. 

"  Let  me  go !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  What  are  you? 
For  God's  sake,  let  me  go !  " 

Brutally  I  tore  her  arms  away  and  flung  her 
from  me  as  a  man  would  fling  away  a  snake  that 
had  coiled  round  him  in  his  sleep.  She  sighed 
deeply  and  moaned. 

"  Pray  do  not  leave  me.     I  am  ill." 

But  I  walked  rapidly  away,  unheeding.  In  an 
instant  she  was  with  me,  soft-footed,  eager-eyed. 
She  watched  me  as  a  panther  watches  its  prey. 
Her  mouth  smiled  with  mysterious  knowledge, 
and  her  intuitive  elflike  hands  were  spread  out  be- 
fore her.  In  my  terror  I  imagined  I  could  feel 
evil  oozing  from  her  pores. 

"  Stay  with  me !  Love  me !  "  she  said  in  a 
voice  of  most  treacherous  music. 

I  turned  upon  her  with  arms  upraised  and  fists 
clenched,  threatening  her,  but  she  sank  all  shud- 
dering upon  my  breast. 

It  was  then  that  I  was  overcome  by  panic  fear. 
Tearing  her  from  me,  I  ran  to  the  entrance-gate, 
rushed  down  the  pathway  and  on  to  the  road, 
and  escaped  to  the  hotel.  Then  I  sought  Love- 
lace. 

"  Here  is  your  pass,"  I  said. 

"Ah,  you  have  escaped!     She  was  there?" 

"  It  was  an  '  escape  '  then?  "  I  asked.  "  She 
really  is  evil?  " 

"  She  is  very  much  to  be  feared,"  he  said. 

*  *  * 

280 


LA  BELLE   DAME  SANS  MERCI 

That  night  I  slept  not  at  all.  I  did  not  wish 
to  sleep:  I  was  afraid  to  surrender  myself  to  the 
Unknown.  I  kept  my  light  burning  and,  to  pass 
the  time,  ruled  many  sheets  of  paper  with  the 
bass  and  treble  clefs,  and  began  to  write  down 
Beethoven's  "  Senate  Pathetique  "  from  memory. 
Strange  how  this  noble  music  seemed  to  decay  as 
it  passed  through  my  mind !  Strange  how  the  fa- 
miliar melodies  were  tinged  with  wickedness !  .  .  . 

Night  passed  and  dawn  came  early.  At  seven 
o'clock  I  rang  my  bell  and  when  the  chambermaid 
appeared  I  ordered  my  breakfast. 

'  Will  Monsieur  have  it  in  his  room?  " 

"  No,"  said  I.  "  I  will  have  it  downstairs  in 
half  an  hour.  Please  have  my  bill  made  out  ready 
for  me." 

The  dining-room  was  deserted  as  I  sat  down. 
A  waiter  came. 

'Where  is  Lovelace?"  I  asked. 

The  man  hesitated  a  moment. 
'Where   is   Lovelace?"   I   asked  again;     "I 
wish  to  see. him  before  I  leave." 

"  Lovelace,  sir?  Monsieur  will  not  betray  my 
confidence?  " 

"No,  no.  What  is  it?  What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

'  We  have  orders  not  to  speak  of  it.  But 
Lovelace  was  found  dead  in  his  bedroom  an  hour 
ago.  He  has  shot  himself." 


281 


INTO   DUST 


To 

Vernon  W.  S.  Ply 


JASON  and  Artemis  had  been  married  only 
two  years  when  they  learned,  beyond  a 
shadow  of  a  doubt,  that  the  sickness  from 
which  Jason  had  for  some  time  been  suffering 
was  consumption.  They  were  both  young  and 
very  brave;  nevertheless,  they  bowed  their  heads 
in  resignation.  Jason  was  doomed.  Three 
brothers  and  sister  had  already  died  of  the  dis- 
ease; consumption  had  killed  his  mother  and  his 
paternal  grandfather.  Decay  had  been  poured 
into  his  blood-vessels  by  both  father  and  mother, 
and  there  was  no  course  open  to  him  but  to  sub- 
mit to  Fate. 

For  ten  hours  a  day  they  stitched  carpets  at 
the  big  factory  near  the  Cathedral,  earning  enough 
money  to  keep  them  in  tolerable  comfort  in  their 
two-roomed  lodging  in  Rue  Egnatia.  But  the 
time  soon  came  when  Jason  was  unfit  for  work, 
and  the  twenty-five  drachma  note  that  Artemis 
carried  home  each  week  had  to  provide  for  the 
needs  of  both.  Artemis  made  a  great  show  of 
eating  big  meals,  but  she  denied  herself  even  the 
necessaries  of  life  in  order  that  Jason  might  have 
the  costly  foods  that  nourished  him. 

If  she  had  loved  him  in  health,  she  now  wor- 
shipped him  in  sickness,  for  Jason  was  not  only 
husband  —  he  was  like  a  son  as  well.  And,  in- 
deed, he  soon  became  as  helpless  as  a  little  child. 
Her  grief  was  bearable  because  she  was  so  con- 
stantly employed  that  she  had  no  time  in  which  to 
brood  upon  it;  the  circumstances  that  poisoned  her 
mind  was  that  she  could  not  tend  him  in  the  day- 

285 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

time,  for  she  was  compelled  by  her  work  to  leave 
him  in  the  care  of  their  landlady. 

Very  soon  their  savings  came  to  an  end.  Medi- 
cines and  rich  foods  exhausted  her  weekly  wage 
two  days  after  she  received  it,  and  it  became  im- 
perative to  earn  a  much  larger  sum. 

"  Dear  Artemis,"  said  Jason  one  evening,  as 
he  lay  in  bed  watching  her  mending  a  stocking, 
"  it's  wonderful  how  far  you  make  the  money  go. 
But  I  think  I  can  guess  how  you  manage  it.  You 
don't  eat  enough  yourself.  You  are  pale  and 
thin,  and  your  beautiful  hair  is  losing  its  lustre." 

With  her  needle  poised  in  the  air,  she  turned 
to  him  with  a  smile. 

"  I  don't  eat  enough?  Why,  I  sometimes  think 
I  eat  too  much.  I  know  I'm  pale  and  perhaps 
a  little  thin,  but  just  think  of  the  weather  we're 
having!  It's  the  hottest  August  we've  had  for 
years  and  years.  Besides,  I  never  was  one  to 
have  much  colour." 

She  continued  looking  at  him,  for  she  loved 
his  handsome  dark  face,  now  grown  weirdly  beau- 
tiful with  the  ravages  of  disease. 

"  I  wish  the  end  would  come  more  quickly," 
he  said.  "  Sometimes  I  think  it  is  wrong  for  me 
to  take  medicines  and  eat  costly  food.  No  one 
can  save  me  —  what's  the  use  of  it?  Why  pro- 
long my  wretched  life?  " 

"  Because,  living,  you  make  me  happy.  In  all 
the  world  I  have  only  you,  Jason.  Do  not  leave 
me  an  hour  before  you  must.  .  .  .  But  we  must 
not  talk  like  this;  we  must  not  grow  sad  when 
the  evening  comes.  I'll  light  the  lamp;  it  will 
286 


INTO     DUST 

be  a  companion  for  us.  And  then,  if  you  like, 
I  will  sing  you  a  new  song  I  learned  to-day  from 
one  of  the  girls  at  the  factory." 

But  though  she  spoke  so  cheerfully,  her  heart 
was  as  heavy  as  lead.  She  had  come  to  the  end 
of  her  money,  and  Jason's  food  for  the  morrow 
had  yet  to  be  bought. 

As  she  crossed  the  room  to  light  the  lamp,  the 
half-conscious  thought  that  had  lain  buried  in  her 
mind  for  weeks  stirred  uneasily  and  leapt  up,  alive 
and  clamant.  Instantly  she  acquiesced  in  its  de- 
mands. If  that  was  the  only  way  out,  that  way 
must  be  taken. 

The  little  lamp  on  the  wall  burned  well. 
'  Which  do  you  think  is  more  companionable 
—  a  clock  that  ticks  and  makes  a  noise,  or  a  lamp 
that  burns  and  makes  a  light?  "  she  asked. 

44  Oh  —  a  lamp.  I  love  light,  and  silence 
doesn't  trouble  me  a  bit.  But  I  would  like  to  hear 
you  sing.  Sing  softly  —  just  for  you  and  me  to 
hear." 

It  was  a  Neapolitan  song  she  had  learned,  a 
barcarolle  that  swayed  easily  with  the  movement 
of  a  swung  hammock  or  of  a  little  boat  on  gentle, 
regular  waves.  It  told  of  a  love  that  was  con- 
stant, of  a  love  that  would  hold  through  all  the 
sorrows  of  life,  that  would  survive  old  age,  and 
cleave  its  way  through  the  darkness  of  death. 

And  if,  when  I  am  dead,  my  heart 
Turns  into  dust,  to  dust  my  face, 

I'll  ride  upon  the  swiftest  wind 
And  find  your  burial  place. 

287 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Again,"  he  said,  when  she  had  finished. 

So  she  sang  it  through  a  second  time,  her  sweet, 
low  voice  vibrating  with  passion. 

"  Love  must  last  —  it  will"  he  said;  "  it  is  the 
only  thing  that  can  never  die." 

He  turned  over  on  his  side  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"Do  you  feel  ready  for  your  sleep?"  she 
asked,  for  Jason  nearly  always  slept  uninterrupt- 
edly from  nine  till  midnight. 

;'Yes:  I  think  I  do." 

So  she  went  over  to  him,  smoothed  his  pillow, 
drew  the  sheet  above  his  shoulders,  and  kissed 
him. 

"  Good-night,  husband,"  she  said,  and  kissed 
him  again.  "  Good-night,  little  boy,"  she  added, 
kissing  him  a  third  time. 

She  resumed  her  work;  but  after  a  time,  when 
she  was  sure  he  was  safely  asleep,  she  rose,  put 
on  her  hat,  turned  out  the  lamp,  and  crept  softly 
to  the  door. 

Out  in  the  street,  she  began  her  mission,  doing 
with  a  brave  heart  but  with  shrinking  flesh  what 
tens  of  thousands  of  women  have  done  for  the 
husbands  they  have  loved. 

Turning  down  Rue  Venizelos,  she  reached  the 
quay  and  entered  a  cafe  where  loose  women  plied 
their  wares.  She  did  not  dare  to  sit  down,  for 
she  had  no  money  with  which  to  purchase  a  drink; 
so  she  walked  slowly  through  the  cafe  as  though 
seeking  some  one. 

Now,  Artemis  was  not  beautiful,  but  she  pos- 
sessed something  more  powerful,  more  subtly  at- 
tractive than  beauty.  She  had  innocence  —  in- 
288 


INTO     DUST 

nocence  dwelt  on  her  face,  and  the  spirit  of  in- 
nocence surrounded  her  like  a  halo.  She  was 
afraid  of  what  she  was  about  to  do,  but  she  did 
not  hesitate.  She  remembered  that  it  had  been 
said  that  there  was  no  greater  love  than  the  love 
which  constrains  a  man  to  lay  down  his  life  for  his 
friend.  But  honour  was  dearer  than  life. 

She  loitered  in  the  noisy  cafe  for  a  minute,  and 
as  she  was  about  to  turn  and  leave,  a  man's  in- 
sistent gaze  caught  her  eyes  and  held  them.  She 
smiled.  He  beckoned  her.  Walking  towards 
him,  she  sat  down  at  the  table  by  his  side. 

"You  are  new  to  this  game,  aren't  you?"  he 
said  frankly,  but  not  unkindly.  "  What  can  I 
order  you?  " 

A  waiter  brought  her  coffee.  Her  companion 
examined  her  closely,  admiring  her  dainty  hands, 
her  clear  eyes,  her  wealth  of  golden  hair. 

"  Do  you  know  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  No :  I  don't  think  I've  ever  seen  you  be- 
fore." 

u  Well,  you  must  call  me  Onias.  And  I  would 
like  to  call  you  by  a  pretty  French  name  I  know 
—  Lucette.  Do  you  like  your  name,  Lucette?" 

'  Yes,  I  think  I  do.  But  do  you  think  it  suits 
me?" 

'  Yes.  It  is  dainty  and  so  are  you.  And  it  is 
pretty  and  innocent,  and  I  think  you  are  pretty 
and  innocent  also." 

"But,  Onias!"  she  objected.  "That  doesn't 
suit  you  at  all.  Onias  ought  to  be  fat  and 
shapeless,  with  marks  of  grease  on  his  waist- 
coat." 

289 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

He  laughed,  pleased  that  she  could  talk  as  well 
as  look  pretty. 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  Onias  is  my  real  name.  Still, 
I'm  glad  I  don't  live  up  to  it." 

"  You're  nicer  than  Onias,"  she  said,  and  as 
she  spoke,  she  suddenly  felt  afraid  of  her  glib- 
ness.  She  had  forced  herself  to  forget  her  hus- 
band for  these  hours,  but  without  warning  their 
little  bedroom  was  before  her  eyes.  She  shiv- 
ered. 

"  Are  you  cold?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  no.     Quite,  quite  warm,  thanks." 

'  This  place  is  very  noisy,"  he  said,  "  shall  we 
go?" 

He  preceded  her,  and  at  the  counter  bought 
her  a  box  of  chocolates. 

"  Don't  do  that!  "  she  said  piteously.  "  Don't 
buy  me  anything!  " 

"  But,  Lucette  —  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  be  kind  to  me,"  she  mur- 
mured; "  I  only  wish  ..." 

But  he  took  the  box  that  was  handed  to  him 
across  the  counter,  and  carried  it  under  his  arm. 

The  quay  was  thronged,  and  Onias  offered  Ar- 
temis his  arm.  After  a  little  hesitation,  she  took 
it.  Though  she  herself  was  tall,  he  was  very  much 
taller.  He  had  the  bright  distinction  of  a  man  ac- 
customed to  issue  orders  that  were  instantly 
obeyed. 

'  You  will  come  to  my  house?  "  he  whispered, 
a  little  shyly.     "  I  am  a  bachelor  and  live  alone 
with  two  servants.     But  perhaps  you  would  like 
some  supper  first?  " 
290 


INTO     DUST 

"  No  —  no  thanks.  I  am  not  a  bit  hungry 
And  —  I  am  so  sorry  —  I  can  only  stay  with  you 
a  little  while." 

"Why?"  he  asked;  "stay  all  night  with  me 
—  do!  "  he  urged. 

"  I  am  so  very  sorry,"  she  replied,  "  but  it's 
impossible.  I  must  be  home  by  midnight." 

4  Very  well,"  said  he,  patting  the  little  hand 
that  rested  on  his  arm,  "  it  shall  be  as  you  wish. 
But  I'm  terribly  disappointed.  Perhaps  some 
other  night?" 

"  No  —  indeed,"  she  said,  "  I  must  always  be 
home  at  midnight,  and  later  on  it  may  be  that 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  come  out  at  all  in  the  even- 
ings. .  .  .  Do  not  be  angry  with  me !  " 

"I  am  not  angry:  I  am  only  sorry.  Do  not 
distress  yourself,  my  dear.  You  are  very  good 
and  honest  not  to  try  to  deceive  me.  Here  we 
are :  this  is  my  house." 

He  opened  a  massive  iron  gate  that  gave  on 
to  a  garden  of  trees.  A  broad  pathway  led  to  a 
detached  house  some  distance  from  the  road.  He 
could  feel  that  she  was  trembling  a  little. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  treat 
you  kindly." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  pressed  it 
gently. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,"  she  said;  "  I  am  just 
a  bit  afraid  of  what  I  am  doing." 

He  unlocked  the  front  door,  and  they  entered  a 
large  hall.  An  elderly  woman  came  in  response 
to  his  ring. 

"  Serve  supper  for  two  in  an  hour's  time,"  he 

291 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

ordered.     Then,   turning  to  Artemis,  he  asked: 
"  Do  you  like  wine,  Lucette?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no.     Do  not  order  me  any  supper, 
I  beg.     I  shall  not  be  able  to  eat  to-night." 
Puzzled  and  a  little  disturbed,  he  said: 
"  Very  well,  dear.     It  shall  be  as  you  wish." 
He  dismissed  his  servant  and  turned  to  Ar- 
temis. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid.     No  harm  shall  come  to 
you." 


An  hour  later  they  were  again  in  the  hall. 
'  You  can  find  your  way  home?     You  will  be 
quite  safe?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh  yes:  I  shall  be  quite  safe." 
'  You  will  come  to  see  me  again?  " 
"  Oh,  no,  no !   ...   But  perhaps  I  must.     But 
I     cannot     think     of     that     now.     Good-night, 
Onias." 

'  You  are  satisfied?     You  have  enough  money 
for  what  you  need?  " 

'  You  have  given  me  more  than  I  expected," 
she  said  innocently. 

"  And  you  do  like  me  a  bit?  " 
"  How  can  I  say  I  like  you?     Indeed,  I  ought 
to   hate   you,   but    that    would   be   unreasonable. 
But,  Onias.   .   .  .  Let  me  go." 

'  You  are  free  to  come  and  go  as  you  please. 
If  you  wish  to  see  me  again  in  the  evening  of 
any  day,  come  to  the  cafe.  If  I  am  not  there,  I 
shall  be  here  and  shall  be  very,  very  happy  to  re- 
ceive you." 
292 


INTO     DUST 

He  opened  the  door  and  offered  her  the  box 
of  chocolates.  Gently  shaking  her  head,  she  re- 
fused his  present. 

"  Au  revoir,  Lucette,"  he  called  softly  when 
she  was  half-way  down  the  pathway. 

But  though  he  listened  very  carefully,  he  did 
not  hear  her  voice.  Indeed,  by  this  time  he  was 
no  longer  in  her  thoughts.  The  three  twenty- 
five  drachma  notes  he  had  given  her  were  crushed 
into  a  ball  in  one  of  her  cold  and  trembling 
hands. 


When  Artemis  reached  her  lodgings,  her  hus- 
band was  still  asleep;  but  he  had  evidently  been 
very  restless,  for  she  could  see  by  the  light  shed 
by  the  lamp  in  the  street  that  the  sheet  that  had 
covered  him  was  flung  to  one  side.  He  was  lying 
on  his  back,  with  his  arms  stretched  out  on  either 
side  of  him. 

Cold  and  trembling,  she  stood  looking  down 
upon  him  in  the  half-darkness.  Soon  her  face 
was  wet  with  tears,  though  she  made  no  sound; 
with  a  gesture  of  annoyance,  she  stopped  weeping 
and  conquered  her  mood  of  self-pity. 

Having  undressed,  she  crept  into  her  little  bed 
at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  lay  still,  waiting 
for  Jason  to  waken.  The  clocks  outside  struck 
midnight.  But  Jason  slept  on  in  silence,  and  soon 
Artemis  began  to  wander  in  that  land  which  lies 
midway  between  sleeping  and  waking. 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  her  husband's 
voice  wakened  her. 

293 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  am  here,"  she  said,  slipping  out 
of  bed. 

She  lit  the  lamp,  went  into  their  other  room, 
poured  a  glassful  of  milk  into  a  pan,  and  brought 
it  to  their  bedroom  where  she  heated  it  over  the 
lamp. 

"It's  nearly  two  o'clock,"  she  said;  "you 
haven't  had  such  a  good  sleep  for  a  long  time. 
Are  you  feeling  better?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  am." 

She  held  the  cup  while  he  drank  its  contents. 
Then  she  smoothed  his  pillow  and,  taking  a  thin 
blanket  from  a  cupboard,  spread  it  over  him. 

Without  a  word  he  closed  his  eyes  and  in  a 
few  minutes  he  slept. 

But  there  was  no  more  sleep  for  Artemis. 
Though  she  had  not  a  single  regret,  yet  she  felt 
unspeakably  miserable.  Her  reason  approved 
of  what  she  had  done,  but  her  spirit  revolted 
against  it.  She  lived  over  and  over  again  the 
hours  she  had  spent  between  nine  and  midnight, 
torturing  herself  by  remembering  every  detail. 

Soon  after  dawn  she  rose,  dressed,  put  on  her 
hat,  and  went  forth  to  buy  food  for  Jason. 


What  must  be,  must  be,  and  it  is  only  the  hypo- 
critical sentimentalist  who  feels  remorse  for  an 
act  which  he  intends  to  commit  again  when  the  oc- 
casion arises.  Artemis  neither  suffered  from  re- 
morse nor  indulged  in  it.  Nor  did  she  rail 
against  the  fate  that  compelled  her  to  sell  her 
294 


INTO     DUST 

body  in  order  that  Jason  might  live.  In  certain 
moods  she  gloried  in  the  desecration  of  her  body 
as  a  martyr  glories  in  the  flames  that  consume 
him. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  the  seventy-five 
drachmas  she  had  earned  from  Onias  was  all  but 
spent.  Her  spirits  were  very  low.  She  felt  weak 
and  ill,  and  as  she  stared  at  her  reflection  in  the 
mirror  she  realized  for  the  first  time  that  less 
money  would  come  to  her  if  she  allowed  herself 
to  look  jaded  and  ill-nourished. 

Early  one  Sunday  evening  she  left  her  lodgings, 
telling  her  husband  that  she  was  going  to  visit 
her  mother  who  lived  two  miles  away  on  the  Kala- 
maria  Road. 

When  she  entered  the  cafe  it  was  nearly  empty, 
for  the  evening  was  yet  young;  so  she  sat  down, 
ordered  coffee,  and  waited,  examining  the  half- 
dozen  demireps  who  had  already  arrived.  They 
talked  at  each  other  in  hard,  loud  voices.  Three, 
sitting  together,  sparkled  with  the  vulgar  arro- 
gance of  diamonds;  they  behaved  as  though  they 
had  just  been  injected  with  cocaine.  After  a 
glance  at  Artemis  as  she  entered,  they  paid  no 
further  attenion  to  her. 

Customers  began  to  drop  in  in  couples,  and  by 
half-past  eight  the  place  was  nearly  full.  Arte- 
mis, shrinking  in  a  corner,  glanced  eagerly  at  each 
fresh  face.  She  was  looking  for  Onias.  Perhaps 
she  might  have  attracted  the  attention  of  some 
other  man  if  she  had  tried,  but  Onias  had  wished 
to  see  her  again,  and  he  had  at  least  treated  her 

295 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

kindly.  Besides,  this  evening  she  was  full  of 
lassitude,  and  too  timid  to  seek  a  new  customer. 
She  would  wait  a  little  longer;  if  he  did  not  come, 
she  would  go  to  his  house. 

But  presently  he  arrived  with  a  woman  —  a 
frail  creature  who  looked  and  moved  like  a  sul- 
phur-coloured butterfly.  Neither  saw  Artemis  as 
they  passed,  and  her  heart  sank.  He  had  for- 
gotten her.  He  had  asked  her  to  come  again,  not 
because  he  wanted  her,  but  because  he  pitied  her. 
She  must  nerve  herself  to  the  point  of  engaging 
the  interest  of  a  stranger.  So  she  called  for  a 
glass  of  wine. 

In  the  meantime,  Onias  had  passed  up  the  cafe 
with  his  companion;  finding  no  vacant  chairs  at  the 
far  end,  they  retraced  their  steps  and  sat  down 
at  a  table  only  a  few  yards  from  Artemis. 

A  waiter  brought  her  wine  and,  as  she  glanced 
up  at  him,  she  saw  that  Onias'  eyes  were  upon  her. 
She  heard  his  voice. 

"  Ah,  there's  Lucette !  "  he  exclaimed. 

And,  leaving  his  companion,  who  appeared  to 
be  quite  indifferent  to  his  movements,  he  came 
across  to  Artemis,  sat  by  her  side,  and  smiled 
gaily  upon  her. 

'  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time,  my 
dear? "  he  asked.  Without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  he  continued:  "  But  you  are  looking  pale 
and  tired,  Lucette.  You  have  not  been  taking 
care  of  yourself;  why  have  you  not  been  to  see 
me?  " 

She  did  her  best  to  meet  him  in  his  mood. 

"  I  have  seen  no  one,"  she  answered,  "  and 
296 


INTO     DUST 

the  reason  why  I  came  here  to-night  was  because 
I  hoped  to  meet  you." 

'  That  is  very  kind  of  you.     Do  you  know 
Maisie,  the  English  girl?" 

He  indicated  the  sulphur-coloured  butterfly. 

41  No,  I  don't  know  any  one." 

"  Ah,  well !  It  does  not  matter.  You  will 
come  with  me  to-night?  " 

Her  grave,  innocent  face  showed  a  moment's 
confusion. 

'  Thank  you,  yes.     But  I  must  be  home  early." 

He  laughed  deprecatingly. 

"  But  Lucette,  you  mustn't  thank  me.  I  am 
only  too  glad  to  have  you.  Some  time,  perhaps, 
you  will  stay  all  night  with  me?  " 

"  Oh,  no.:  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  able 
to  do  that.  You  promised  you  would  not  be 
angry  with  me?  " 

"  I  don't  like  you  to  say  things  like  that,  Lu- 
cette; of  course  I  am  not  angry  with  you,  and  I 
never  shall  be  while  you  are  so  honest  and  truthful. 
But  you,  in  your  turn,  must  not  be  angry  with  me 
if  I  make  you  eat  something.  I'm  going  to  have 
some  supper:  I  can't  eat  alone:  you  must  join 


me." 


1  Very  well,"  she  said,  "  I  will." 

She  almost  liked  him,  so  indulgently  did  he 
treat  her. 

"  Excuse  me  a  minute,  please,  while  I  explain 
to  Maisie." 

He  went  over  to  the  beautiful  girl,  bent  over 
her,  and  spoke  a  few  words.  In  reply,  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  away. 

297 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  Ought  you  not  to  ask  your  friend  to  sup 
with  you  as  well?"  asked  Artemis  when  he  had 
returned. 

He  smiled. 

"  Oh,  Maisie  and  I  are  old  friends;  we  under- 
stand each  other." 

He  ordered  wine  and  food. 

"  But,"  he  said,  turning  to  Artemis,  "  perhaps 
you  would  like  us  to  have  supper  in  a  private 
room?  " 

"I  should  —  very  much,"  she  half-whispered, 
"  for  I  feel  strange  here  among  all  these  people." 

"  And  so  would  I,"  he  agreed. 
4  The  summer-house,   Monsieur,   is  not  being 
used,  if  you  would  like  that,"  said  the  waiter. 

Onias  questioned  Artemis  with  his  eyebrows, 
and  she  nodded  in  reply. 

The  large  summer-house  was  cool  and 
Cushioned;  concealed  from  the  rest  of  the 
garden  by  a  high  hedge,  they  were  alone  and 
unobserved.  Onias  took  his  Lucette  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  gently. 

"I  feel  so  sad  about  you,"  he  said;  "won't 
you  tell  me  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Please  don't  ask  me  about  myself,"  she  said 
softly;  "  you  must  just  think  of  me  as  —  as  some 
one  who  pleases  you  for  an  hour." 

"  But  perhaps  I  can  help  you?  " 
'  You  have  helped  me.     You  must  let  me  keep 
my  sorrows  to  myself." 

With  their  supper  the  waiter  brought  a  little 
lamp  with  a  shade  the  colour  of  the  evening  sky. 
It  was  now  almost  dark  in  this  garden.  Two 
298 


INTO    DUST 

large  white  moths  dashed  themselves  impetuously 
against  the  lamp,  their  eyes  shining  with  excite- 
ment. Excited,  too,  was  the  owl  that  called  and 
called  somewhere  in  the  grove  of  pepper-trees 
behind  them.  .  .  . 

As  Artemis  was  about  to  leave  Onias'  house 
that  night,  he  placed  five  twenty-five-drachma 
notes  in  her  hand. 

"  It  is  too  much,"  she  said  involuntarily. 

"  Oh  no :  I  like  to  give  it  to  you." 

"  If  it  were  for  myself,  I  should  not  take  it 
all;  but  it  is  for  some  one  who  is  dying." 

"Poor  Lucette!     Some  one  you  love?" 
'  Yes.     He  has  nothing  but  what  I  give  him." 

"  I  did  not  know  that,"  he  said  gravely. 
"Has  life  always  been  hard  to  you?" 

"Oh  no!  It  has  been  beautiful  —  beautiful. 
If  only  Jason  were  well,  it  would  be  beautiful 
still.  You  know,  Monsieur,  he  is  like  a  little 
child." 

"  Hush !  hush !  You  must  not  call  me  Mon- 
sieur. To  you  I  am  Onias;  to  me  you  are 
Lucette.  ...  A  little  child?" 

'  Yes.  So  helpless,  so  dependent  upon  me. 
And  he  does  not  want  to  die." 

Sadly  she  turned  away  and  walked  towards  the 
door. 

"  You  will  see  me  again?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes  —  I  will  see  you  again." 

He  pondered  a  minute. 

"Now,"  he  said;  "-may  I  ask?  —  is  Jason 
your  husband?  " 

"  Yes,  oh  yes." 

299 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"You  love  him?" 

11  He  is  all  I  have  —  all  I  need." 

'*  Well,  then,  you  must  come  here  no  more. 
I  will  send  you  money.  .  .  .  But  while  you  love 
your  husband,  you  must  not  do  this.  You  have 
been  driven  to  my  arms :  it  is  wrong.  Yes,  I 
will  send  you  money.  Or,  if  you  would  like  it 
better,  I  will  leave  it  each  Saturday  at  the  cafe. 
I  will  write  on  the  envelope  '  For  Lucette.'  I 
will  tell  the  waiter  who  served  us  to-night.  If 
you  ask  him  each  time  you  call,  he  will  give  you 
the  money." 

"  But,  Onias,  I  can't  take  it.  I  shall  not  have 
earned  it." 

He  turned  on  her  angrily. 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense !  I  have  plenty  of 
money.  I  don't  want  it.  If  it  pleases  me  to  give 
it  to  you,  I  shall  give  it  to  you.  .  .  .  Come, 
Lucette,  be  sensible.  We  shall  meet  again,  some 
day,  and  then  we  can  kiss  each  other  without  — 
without  this  guilt." 

She  took  his  hand  impulsively  in  hers  and 
kissed  it. 

"  Good-bye,  Onias,"  she  said  softly. 

"  And  you  will  call  at  the  cafe  each  Saturday?  " 

"  I  will." 

"  You  promise?  " 

"  I  promise." 


During  these  last  September  days  Jason  rallied. 
His  appetite  improved,  he  grew  stronger,  and 
every  day  he  was  well  enough  to  get  out  of  bed, 
300 


INTO     DUST 

dress,  and  sit  in  an  easy-chair  for  two  or  three 
hours.  He  ceased  to  lose  flesh,  and  his  eyes  no 
longer  had  their  unnatural  brightness. 

The  old  Greek  doctor  studied  him  attentively 
from  day  to  day,  and  one  Saturday  morning  when 
Artemis  was  away  at  her  work,  he  took  Jason  by 
the  hand  and  said: 

"  You  are  not  going  to  die,  my  son.  You  be- 
come healthier  every  day.  A  miracle  has  hap- 
pened." 

"  A  miracle?  "  asked  Jason. 

The  doctor  smiled. 

"  Well,  when  we  medical  people  come  across 
something  we  don't  understand,  we  call  it  a 
miracle.  But  you  must  continue  to  take  the 
greatest  care  of  yourself,  especially  when  the 
cold  weather  comes.  If  you  could  go  to  Egypt 
for  the  winter.  .  .  ." 

Jason  laughed. 

"  Flying  to  the  moon  is  not  more  unlikely  than 
my  going  to  Egypt.  .  .  ." 

When  Artemis  returned  from  her  ivork  early 
in  the  afternoon,  tired,  but  not  unhappy —  for  the 
improvement  in  her  husband's  health  had  filled 
her  with  hope  —  Jason  was  up  and  dressed. 

"A  miracle  has  happened!"  he  announced, 
laughing.  And  then,  hurriedly  and  impetuously, 
he  told  her  of  the  doctor's  visit. 

"Oh,  is  it  true?"  she  asked.  "It  is  too 
wonderful!  I  daren't  believe  it,  Jason." 

Placing  the  parcels  she  was  carrying  on  a  chair, 
she  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy!  "  she  cried. 

301 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

Worn  out  with  the  week's  work  in  the  daytime 
and  the  nursing  by  night,  she  could  not  keep  back 
her  tears;  her  sobs,  deep  and  convulsive,  re- 
vealed to  him  the  extent  of  the  suffering  she 
had  so  bravely  endured  through  the  past  few 
months.  .  .  . 

At  teatime  he  returned  to  bed,  and  she  pre- 
pared to  go  out. 

"  Sleep,  if  you  can,  Jason  dear,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  going  to  do  the  shopping  for  the  week- 
end." 

She  hurried  off  to  the  cafe  with  a  light  heart. 
The  envelope  with  her  weekly  seventy-five 
drachmas  was  waiting  for  her.  As  she  was  leav- 
ing, she  met  Onias  at  the  entrance. 

"  Hello,  Lucette !  "  he  said,  smiling  and  shak- 
ing hands;  "  how  are  you?  " 

"Oh,  Onias  —  Jason  is  getting  better!  The 
doctor  came  this  morning  and  said  he  wouldn't 
die.  If  great  care  is  taken  of  him,  he  will  live. 
I  am  so  happy  that  I  can  hardly  contain  myself  — 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  money  .  .  ." 

Her  eyes  were  now  bright  with  tears. 

"  Are  you  in  a  hurry  to  get  home?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  not  if  you  want  me." 

"  I  should  like  to  take  you  for  an  hour's  row. 
You  look  so  tired  and  pale,  and  it  will  do  you 
good.  Will  you  come?" 

"Oh  yes:  I  should  like  it." 

Artemis'  experience  of  the  world  was  very  nar- 
now.  Until  recently  she  had  always  believed  that 
men  and  women  were  either  definitely  good  or 
unmistakably  evil.  Onias,  she  supposed,  was 
302 


INTO     DUST 

"  bad,"  and  yet  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  this 
gentle,  kind-hearted  fellow  was  even  tainted  by 
evil.  She  was  quite  sure  now  that  she  really 
liked  him  —  not  because  of  his  handsome  looks 
and  his  fine,  strong  body,  but  because  .  .  . 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  be  with  him  here  on 
the  cool  sea.  .  .  . 

At  nine  o'clock  she  returned  home,  her  arms 
full  of  parcels. 

Jason,  a  little  feverish,  was  tossing  on  his  bed. 
He  was  frowning,  and  he  looked  angry. 

'  You  have  left  me  alone  for  a  long  time,"  he 
said;  "  where  have  you  been?  " 

Startled,  and  having  no  answer  ready,  she  said: 

"  I  went  to  see  mother.  Have  you  been  want- 
ing me,  dear?  " 

"No.     Had  your  mother  any  news?" 

Artemis  suddenly  felt  sick:  she  had  told  one 
lie,  and  now  she  would  be  compelled  to  tell  many 
more. 

"  Nothing  much.  But  I  felt  I  had  to  tell  her 
about  you.  She  was  simply  overwhelmed  with 
joy,  as  you  can  well  imagine,  and  she  sent  all 
sorts  of  nice  messages  to  you." 

Jason  sat  up  in  bed,  his  face  wet  with  perspira- 
tion. His  eyes  were  brilliant  with  the  brilliant 
hardness  of  polished  glass.  He  looked  at 
Artemis  imploringly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  has  happened  to  me  —  to 
us,"  he  said.  "  Why  do  you  tell  me  such  lies?  " 
The  sound  of  that  last  word  seemed  to  whip  him 
to  anger.  "  And  where  have  you  been  getting 
all  your  money  from?  " 

303 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

She  shrank  away  from  him  and  went  to  the 
table  near  the  window. 

"  I've  told  you  where  the  money  comes  from. 
My  brother  in  London  sends  it.  He  has  sent  it 
regularly  ever  since  I  told  him  you  were  ill." 

But  she  knew  that  the  very  tone  of  her  voice 
betrayed  her. 

"  You  only  tell  lies  to  me  because  I  am  help- 
less; you  wouldn't  dare  to  do  it  if  I  were  well 
and  strong.  You  have  not  seen  your  mother 
to-day.  She  came  here  just  after  you  left,  and 
went  home  only  half  an  hour  ago." 

He  lay  down  on  his  pillow,  exhausted  and 
breathing  heavily. 

With  feverish  anxiety  Artemis  searched  her 
mind  for  another  lie  that  would  reconcile  her 
own  statement  with  the  real  facts.  But  she 
could  find  none. 

"  I  have  deceived  you,  Jason,"  she  said. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  he  said  sorrowfully. 

He  did  not  ask  her  why,  but  turned  his  face 
to  the  wall.  After  a  few  moments'  silence,  he 
said: 

'  You  will  find  a  letter  on  the  mantelpiece : 
it  is  from  your  brother  in  London.  When  you 
told  me  that  he  was  sending  you  money,  I  wrote  to 
thank  him.  But  he  now  asks  what  I  mean.  He 
says  he  has  never  sent  you  a  penny,  and  cannot 
do  so  as  his  wife  is  seriously  ill." 

Artemis  sat  down  heavily. 

"  Don't  say  anything  unless  you  can  tell  me 
the  truth,"  went  on  Jason;  "  I  will  try  to  believe 
you  had  a  good  reason  for  what  you  have  done." 
304 


INTO     DUST 

Artemis,  feeling  that  her  small  world  had  sud- 
denly fallen  into  a  black  abyss,  sat  still  and  silent 
for  a  long  time;  then,  with  an  effort,  she  stirred 
herself  and  went  about  her  work. 

She  dared  not  speak,  for  perhaps  a  single  word 
would  betray  her.  Her  secret  would  lie  between 
her  and  her  husband  for  ever,  separating  them 
wider  as  the  years  passed,  until,  perhaps,  they 
became  strangers,  even  enemies. 


Ten  days  later  Jason  died  in  bed  whilst  Artemis 
was  away  at  her  work.  In  a  prolonged  fit  of 
coughing  he  broke  a  blood-vessel,  and  passed 
away  with  his  mind  full  of  dark  suspicions  regard- 
ing his  wife. 

Artemis,  worn  out  with  anxiety,  her  mind 
poisoned,  her  spirit  broken,  felt  no  shock  at  his 
death.  She  was  already  numb  with  suffering: 
she  could  feel  no  more. 

She  buried  him  without  tears,  and  a  few  days 
later  left  her  lodgings  and  took  a  single  room  in 
one  of  those  ill-famed  streets  that  lead  down  to 
the  quay.  To  her  mother's  invitation  to  make 
a  home  with  her  she  replied  that  for  the  present 
she  preferred  to  be  alone  with  her  grief. 

Throwing  herself  into  her  work  with  a  feverish 
anxiety  to  forget,  she  pased  a  few  days,  success- 
fully keeping  at  bay  the  suspicion  —  now  almost 
a  certainty  —  that  she  was  even  now  only  in  the 
midst  of  her  calamities.  Even  if  she  could  for- 
get, her  sorrows  were  not  yet  over. 

One  restless  night,  when  sleep  was  impossible, 

30$ 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

her  spirit  threw  off  its  numbness,  and  for  the 
first  time  for  many  weeks  she  looked  facts  in  the 
face,  and,  speaking  aloud,  said: 

"  I  am  with  child,  and  the  father  of  the  child 
is  Onias." 


At  the  end  of  November  the  Varda  winds  came. 
Artemis  never  ventured  out  of  doors  except  to 
go  to  and  from  her  work  and  to  buy  the  simple 
necessaries  of  life.  Since  her  husband's  death 
she  had  not  visited  the  cafe.  She  had,  however, 
written  to  Onias,  thanking  him  for  his  generosity, 
and  telling  him  of  the  death  of  Jason.  At  the 
same  time  she  asked  him  not  to  send  her  any 
more  money,  as  she  no  longer  needed  it. 

During  these  months  her  mind  had  been  full 
of  evasions  and  duplicities.  To  think  was  to 
suffer;  to  look  into  the  future  was  to  be  filled 
with  anxiety.  If,  as  so  often  happened,  thoughts 
of  Jason  came  to  her,  she  thrust  them  from  her. 

Day  by  day  Onias  meant  more  to  her.  Each 
Sunday,  as  she  sat  sewing  little  garments  for  his 
and  her  baby,  she  tried  to  recall  every  word  he 
had  spoken  to  her.  There  were  hours  when  she 
thought  of  him  with  tenderness,  almost  with  love. 
He  was  the  father  of  her  child.  Jason  had  never 
been  that. 

She  began  to  make  discreet  inquiries  about 
Onias,  but  without  much  result.  As  she  sat  in 
her  little  room  during  the  winter  evenings,  she 
dreamed  impossible  dreams.  She  pictured  her- 
self married  to  Onias,  protected  and  loved  by  him. 
306 


INTO     DUST 

There  was  no  more  anxiety  about  money,  no 
more  fear  of  the  future.  Her  child  would  .  .  . 

In  the  middle  of  one  of  these  dreams,  she  was 
thrown  back  into  the  realities  of  life  by  the  flame 
of  her  lamp  burning  low  and  expiring.  She  had 
neither  oil  nor  money.  She  must  sit  in  darkness. 

But  why  should  she  endure  small  privations 
day  after  day  when  Onias  was  ready  and  anxious 
to  receive  her?  After  all,  he  wanted  her  and, 
in  her  heart  of  hearts,  she  wanted  him.  She 
must  conquer  her  timidity.  If  she  told  Onias 
what  had  happened  to  her  through  him  .  .  . 
Well,  why  shouldn't  she?  She  would  claim  noth- 
ing from  him;  she  would  ask  for  nothing.  She 
would  go  to  see  him  as  an  old  acquaintance,  an 
old  friend. 

She  sat  in  the  dark  screwing  her  courage  to 
the  sticking-point.  She  longed  yet  dreaded  to 
go.  At  last  — 

"  I  will  go  to  the  cafe  —  he  may  be  there,"  she 
said.  "  I  will  meet  him  as  though  by  accident." 

Having  hurriedly  donned  her  hat  and  cloak, 
she  went  out  into  the  bitter,  stormy  night.  .  .  . 

The  warmth  of  the  cafe  welcomed  her.  The 
place  was  crowded,  and  for  a  few  moments  she 
could  not  distinguish  one  person  from  another  in 
the  smoke-laden  atmosphere. 

When  half-way  down  the  long  room  she  felt 
a  gentle  pressure  on  her  arm  and,  turning,  saw 
Onias. 

"  Well,  Lucette !  "  he  exclaimed,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  her  face  radiant  with 

307 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

joy.     His  very  voice  seemed  to  caress  her.     He 
took  her  hand  and  held  it  for  a  few  moments. 

"  Are  you  alone?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered;  "  may  I  sit  with  you?  " 

"Will  you?  Come  along — I'll  find  you  a 
chair." 

He  had  been  sitting  with  a  group  of  men  and 
women  friends,  but  he  left  them  and,  taking 
Artemis'  arm,  led  her  to  the  farthest  end  of  the 
cafe  where,  in  a  little  alcove,  he  found  a  vacant 
table  with  two  chairs. 

"  Now  tell  me  all  the  news.  What  has  hap- 
pened to  you  since  your  husband  died? — good 
things  or  bad?  " 

"  Nothing  —  nothing,"  she  said.  "  I  felt  very 
lonely  to-night,  so  I  came  here." 

"Poor  little  Lucette !     And  are  you  happy?" 
'  Yes  —  now,  I  am  happy  with  you." 

"And   to-night?"   he    asked   in    a   low   voice. 
'You   will   come   to   my  house   to-night?     You 
will  stay  till  to-morrow?" 

"  I  should  like  to,  but,  Onias.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Lucette?  Don't  be  afraid.  What  is 
it  you  want  to  tell  me?  " 

"  You  will  not  mind?  " 

His  face  suddenly  changed  its  expression. 

"  No,  I  shall  not  mind,"  he  said. 

A  waiter  came  to  their  table  for  orders. 
'You  will  have  wine,  won't  you,  Lucette?" 

"  Please.     Some   Mavrodaphne,   I   think." 

When  the  waiter  had  gone,  Lucette  still  re- 
mained silent. 

"  Now,"  said  Onias,  "  tell  me." 
308 


INTO     DUST 

"  I  am  going  to  have  a  baby,"  she  said  halt- 
ingly. 

"Oh!  A  baby?  You  are  going  to  have  a 
baby?" 

All  the  pleasantness  had  gone  from  his  face. 
'  Yes,"  she  answered;  "  and  the  baby  is  .   .   ." 
She  hesitated  in  confusion.     Then:  "Yes,  I  am 
going  to  have  a  little  baby,"  she  added. 

There  was  a  long  silence  during  which  Onias 
drew  away  from  her. 

"  Are  you  glad?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

Her  hands  were  clasped  very  tightly,  and  she 
pulled  savagely  at  the  wedding-ring  she  was  wear- 
ing. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered. 

The  waiter  returned  to  their  table  with  their 
drinks.  Onias  gulped  his  down  hastily. 

"  I  am  going  to  Marseilles  to-morrow,"  he 
said  casually. 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  Artemis,  in  sudden  pain. 
"  Marseilles  is  a  long  way  off,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,  a  very  long  way.  I  shall  be  there  for 
a  year." 

His  voice  was  cold,  his  manner  distant.  He 
took  a  cigar  from  his  pocket  and  began  to  smoke 
it. 

"Won't  you  drink  your  wine?"  he  asked. 

She  sipped  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  put  the 
glass  down. 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  she  said.  "  I  —  I  think  I'd 
like  to  go  home." 

"  Shall  I  order  you  a  cab?  " 

"Oh,  no,  no!     I  will  walk." 

309 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

They  rose  simultaneously. 

"Please  stay  where  you  are,"  she  said;  "I 
would  much  rather  go  by  myself.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  he  said,  striving  to  hide  the 
relief  he  felt. 


310 


THE     GRANDCHILD 


To 
X 


SCENE  I 
In  Guy  Fallen' s  Garden 

KATYA.  What  you  have  never  understood, 
dear,  is  that  mamma  is  terribly  indelicate. 
Proper  people  nearly  always  are. 

MARIANA.  Yes,  but  ...  How  can  she? 

KATYA.  I  don't  know.  But  she's  doing  it 
now,  this  very  minute.  Imagine  Guy's  blushes. 

MARIANA.  Poor  Guy!  But,  really,  if  it's 
any  one's  duty  to  ask  him,  surely  it's  yours? 

KATYA.  But  I  have  asked  him!  He  always 
says  no.  He  detests  children  —  or,  at  least,  he 
says  he  does.  It's  a  disease  with  mamma. 
"  How  I  should  like  to  hold  a  grandchild  on  my 
knee  .  .  .  the  patter  of  its  little  feet  ...  its 
first  childish  attempts  to  talk  ...  its  soft  smooth 
cheeks."  That's  how  she  goes  on.  Really,  she 
embarrasses  even  me. 

MARIANA.  Well,  I  s'pose  it's  only  natural. 
But  what  does  your  papa  say? 

KATYA.  Oh,  it  hasn't  got  as  far  as  that;  I 
hope  it  never  will.  You  see,  mamma  will  only 
amuse  Guy;  papa  would  make  him  angry.  After 
all,  dear,  it's  very  soon.  And  you  must  remem- 
ber that  even  mamma  only  had  one. 

MARIANA.  'M  yes.  She  needn't  talk,  need 
she? 

KATYA.  But  she  does.  She  has  asked  me  all 
sorts  of  questions  about  Guy. 

MARIANA.  Yes?    What  sort  of  questions? 

KATYA.  Mariana!     As   if  Fd  tell  you! 

313 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

MARIANA.  Do  —  please! 

KATYA.  Can't  you  guess? 

MARIANA.  I've  tried  —  hard.  But,  you  see,  I 
know  so  little  about  these  things.  In  fact,  I  know 
nothing  at  all. 

KATYA.  These  things? 

MARIANA.  Well,  you  know  what  I  mean. 

KATYA.  Oh!  you  might  mean  anything. 

MARIANA.  I  do. 

KATYA.  If  you  were  married,  now,  I  might. 

MARIANA.  I  should  love  to  be  there,  listening. 

KATYA.  It's  a  grandson  she  wants.  She'll 
order  it  from  Guy.  And  he  will  look  so  awfully 
solemn  and  feel  so  frightfully  tickled. 

MARIANA.  Oh,  I  do  wish  I  was  married.  It 
must  be  so  tremendously  —  well,  exciting.  So 
unexpected,  you  know  —  the  things  that  happen, 
I  mean. 

KATYA.  Well,  it  is  rather  wonderful  at  first. 
I  have  a  friend  in  Brussels  —  Elise  Deschamps. 
The  other  day  she  wrote  me  such  a  funny  letter. 
She  wanted  to  know  whether  she  ought  to  behave 
just  naturally  or  pretend  to  be  shy. 

MARIANA.  And  what  did  you  say? 

KATYA.  What  could  I  say? 

MARIANA.  Really,  Katya,  you're  frightfully 
exasperating.  You  always  seem  to  be  on  the 
point  of  telling  me  things,  but  you  never  do. 

KATYA.  Well,  there's  nothing  to  tell  —  noth- 
ing, that  is,  that  you  don't  know  already. 

MARIANA.  Oh,  how  dreadfully  disappointing! 
Isn't  there  really  more  in  it  than  that? 

KATYA.  Than  what? 
3H 


THE     GRANDCHILD 

MARIANA.  Than  what  I  know  already. 
KATYA.  But  what  do  you  know? 


SCENE  II 
In  Guy  Fallon's  Library 

MRS.  KONTOROMPA.  I  was  just  saying  the  same 
thing  as  I  came  upstairs.  ;'  What  an  exquisite 
day!  "  That's  what  I  was  saying. 

GUY.  But  a  trifle  too  hot. 

MRS.  K.  Ye  —  es.  [A  long  pause.']  Oh  yes, 
quite. 

GUY.  Seen  Katya? 

MRS.  K.  I  waved  my  hand  to  her  in  the  garden 
as  I  came  up  the  drive.  .  .  .  How  is  Katya, 
Guy? 

GUY.  Tophole. 

MRS.  K.  [Significantly.]  Have  you  anything 
to  tell  me  about  —  well,  about  Katya? 

GUY.  Let  me  see,  now.  .  .  .  N-no;  I  think 
not.  She  bought  three  new  hats  yesterday,  but 
I  haven't  seen  them  yet. 

MRS.  K.  What  I  meant  was.  .  .  .  Well,  it's 
no  use  beating  about  the  bush  —  how  is  she? 

GUY.  But  I've  already  told  you,  mamma. 
She  has  the  appetite  of  a  horse. 

MRS.  K.  Nothing  at  all ?  well  —  quite?  .  .  . 
no  sign  that?  .  .  .  you  know! 

GUY.  I  wish  I  did.  What  is  it  you  want  me 
to  tell  you? 

315 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

MRS.  K.  Just  the  truth  —  the  honest,  simple 
truth. 

GUY.  [Wilfully  misunderstanding  her.~\  Oh, 
your  new  toque !  How  stupid  I  am !  I  think  it's 
simply  splendid.  But  you  always  do  look  nice 
in  pink. 

MRS.  K.  [Beaming.']  How  sweet  of  you,  Guy! 
But  that  wasn't  it.  ...  Have  you  ever  consid- 
ered, Guy,  that  I  should  like  to  be  a  grand- 
mother? 

GUY.  No.  Would  you  really?  Really  and 
truly? 

MRS.  K.  Yes,  Guy.  The  patter  of  little  feet, 
the  .  .  .  the  soft,  smooth  cheeks.  .  .  . 

GUY.  But  I  detest  children. 

MRS.  K.  Ah!  You'll  never  make  me  believe 
that.  No  good  man  hates  children. 

GUY.  No,  I  s'pose  not.  But  then,  mamma, 
I'm  not  good.  I  remember  that  when  I  was  a 
boy  .  .  . 

MRS.  K.  But  poor  Katya!  Consider  her. 
Consider  me. 

GUY.  In  what  way? 

MRS.  K.  You  —  you  know  perfectly  well  what 
I  mean.  If  I  could  only  be  the  grandmother 
of  one  child  —  well,  that  would  be  something, 
wouldn't  it? 

GUY.  It  would  be  a  great  deal. 

MRS.  K.  For  my  part,  I  had  four  brothers  and 
three  sisters.  My  grandmother  had  seventy- 
three  grandchildren. 

GUY.  Yes,  people  were  very  thorough  half  a 
century  ago.  Quite  like  the  Old  Testament. 


THE     GRANDCHILD 

MRS.  K.  But  you  will  promise,  won't  you? 

GUY.  Do  you  know,  mamma,  you  have  the 
manner  of  being  most  direct  and  open,  but  as 
a  matter  of  fact  you  are  speaking  in  riddles. 
Now,  tell  me  —  what  is  it  you  want  me  to  promise 
you? 

MRS.  K.  I  don't  quite  know. 

GUY.  I  thought  you  didn't. 

MRS.  K.  You  see,  Katya  is  so  reticent  in  these 
matters.  But  you'll  do  your  best,  I'm  sure.  To 
win  over  Katya,  I  mean.  That  is,  if  it  is  Katya. 

GUY.  Who  is  to  blame,  you  mean? 

MRS.  K.  Oh,  I  shouldn't  say  "blame."  Al- 
though if  it  goes  on  much  longer,  I  may.  But 
you'll  think  it  over,  eh?  That  is  the  most  I  can 
expect  at  our  first  interview  on  this  subject. 

GUY.  There  are  to  be  others? 

MRS.  K.  If  necessary. 

GUY.  But,  mamma,  you  don't  know  how  much 
at  sea  I  feel.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  not  abso- 
lutely certain  that  we're  both  talking  about  the 
same  thing.  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  have  been 
talking  about? 

MRS.  K.  N-no.     You  tell  me  first. 

GUY.  I  daren't. 

MRS.  K.  That's  it !  We  are  talking  about  the 
same  thing.  I  felt  sure  we  were. 

GUY.  Well,  so  long  as  you're  satisfied, 
mamma.  .  .  . 

MRS.  K.  I  shall  look  forward  to  it  with  the 
greatest  pleasure.  You  see,  you've  got  such  a 
big  house.  I  should  have  this  room,  if  I  were 
you.  Bars  across  the  windows,  and  so  on. 

317 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

GUY.  But  the  stairs ! 

MRS.  K.  A  little  wicket  gate  on  the  landing. 
They  begin  to  prowl  about  quite  early.  I  remem- 
ber Katya  eighteen  years  ago  —  always  on  her 
hands  and  knees! 

GUY.  She's  in  the  garden  with  Mariana. 

MRS.  K.  Yes,  I  saw  her.  .  .  .  Well,  then, 
that's  settled. 

GUY.  One  can  only  do  what  one  can. 

MRS.  K.  Yes,  win  her  over,  Guy:  win  her 
over. 


SCENE  III 
In  Guy  Fallon's  Garden 

MRS.  KONTOROMPA.  What  an  ^vquisite  day! 
How  do  you  do? 

MARIANA.  How   do  you  do?     Yes,   isn't  it? 

GUY.  We've  been  talking,  Katya. 

KATYA.  Yes?  ...  I  think  the  fuchsias  are 
better  than  ever  this  year,  don't  you,  mamma? 

MRS.  K.  Yes,  darling.  Oh,  Katya,  I  am  so 
pleased. 

KATYA.  How  nice,  mamma !  I  like  you  to  be 
happy.  But  what  has  happened? 

MRS.  K.  Oh  —  er  —  nothing.  Nothing  that 
I  know  of.  But  Guy  has  promised  to  ... 

MARIANA.  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  really  going 
now,  Katya,  dear. 


THE     GRANDCHILD 

MRS.  K.  Oh,  don't  run  away  just  because  I've 
come. 

MARIANA.  Oh,  Mrs.  Kontorompa,  it  wasn't 
that.  But,  you  see  .  .  . 

KATYA.  Mariana   feels   embarrassed. 

MARIANA.  Oh  —  no,  dear :  why  should  I  ? 

GUY.  You  felt  that  mamma  was  going  to  say 
something. 

MRS.  K.  Yes  —  that's  quite  right.  You've 
reminded  me.  Katya,  I  was  going  to  say  that 
Guy  has  promised  to  ... 

GUY.  To  do  my  best  to  ... 

MRS.  K.     Win  you  over. 

KATYA.  Me?     Win  me  over?     To  what? 

GUY.  Bars  on  the  window  —  a  wicket-gate  on 
the  landing. 

KATYA.  But  I  am  won  over.  I  always  have 
been. 

MRS.  K.  Then  it  1*5  your  fault,  Guy. 

GUY.  If  I'd  only  known!  You  see,  you  never 
told  me. 

MARIANA.  How  mysterious  all  this  sounds. 

MRS.  K.  Well,  Mariana,  this  is  how  it  stands. 
You  see,  Guy  and  Katya  have  been  married  three 
years  and  .  .  . 

MARIANA.  Oh  yes:  quite.  /  understand. 
Goo^-bye,  Mrs.  Kontorompa.  Good-bye,  Katya. 
Goo  .  . 

GUY.  Really,  mamma. 

KATYA.  Really,  mamma. 

MRS.  K.  Oh,  dear,  dear!     What  have  I  said? 

KATYA.  Ah,  here's  tea  coming  1 

MRS.  K.  Oh,  I  can't  stop.  I  must  hurry  home 

319 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

and  tell  papa  the  good  news.  So  very  satisfac- 
tory! These  modern  times  —  the  things  people 
do.  Don't  they,  dear? 

MARIANA.  And  don't  do,  too. 

MRS.  K.  Yes.  Well,  Guy,  I  keep  you  to  your 
word.  I  shall  expect  to  hear  some  news  shortly. 
Good-bye,  dear  Katya.  So  satisfactory.  Take 
care  of  yourself,  dear. 

GUY.  Why,  what  has  happened,  Katya? 

KATYA.  Nothing.     Mother  merely  anticipates. 


320 


NERVES 


To 

Sieveking  Pollard 


WHEN  Dr.  Julian  Sylvester  arrived  at 
Doiran,  he  took  a  room  at  the  house 
of  Draco's  mother,  and  his  mule  was 
put  to  grass  in  the  fields  behind  the  town.  Draco, 
rather  shy,  but  hot  with  curiosity,  carried  his 
baggage  upstairs  —  a  large  trunk,  six  wooden 
boxes  clamped  with  iron,  and  a  small  sack  of  pro- 
visions. Placing  these  on  the  floor  against  the 
wall,  he  turned  to  leave,  but  stopped  when  Syl- 
vester called  him. 

'  You  speak  Greek,  eh?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

'  Yes,  sir,  and  Bulgarian  as  well." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  stay  here  a  week  —  see? 
And  I  want  you  to  get  me  a  young  and  strong 
guide  —  a  man  who  knows  the  country  —  every 
yard  of  it.  I'm  collecting  butterflies  and  taking 
photographs." 

Draco's  face  lit  up  and  shone. 

"  See  here  —  this  is  the  kind  of  thing,"  said 
Sylvester,  going  down  on  his  knees  and  opening 
one  of  the  wooden  boxes  with  a  key  he  took  from 
his  pocket.  "  By  the  way,  what  is  your  name?  " 

11  Draco." 

"  Draco  —  right.     Well,  mine  is  Sylvester." 

"Xilvesta?" 

'  That's  near  enough.  Now,  Draco,  look  at 
these  bottles.  Butterflies  —  all  butterflies,  see? 
And  here  are  some  photographs  I  took  outside 
Salonika.  I  want  more  butterflies,  more  photo- 
graphs. Then  drachmas  a  day  for  the  man  who'll 
come  with  me  and  show  me  where  to  find  what 
I  want." 

3*3 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

"  I'll  come,  sir." 

"Will  you?  Yes,  I  think  you'll  do.  You 
look  strong  enough." 

Draco  was  dark  and  bronzed  and  tall.  He 
had  quick,  restless  eyes,  and  a  smile  that  said: 
"  How  fine  it  is  to  be  alive!  " 

"Well,  that's  a  bargain,  see?"  said  Sylvester. 
"  We'll  start  to-morrow  at  six." 

If  ever  there  was  a  man  made  for  the  open  air, 
that  man  was  Draco.  He  accepted  his  mother's 
cottage  as  one  of  the  unavoidable  evils  of  life. 
And  he  was  a  born  hunter.  His  eyes  swallowed 
everything,  and  his  quick  elastic  step  was  as  grace- 
ful as  the  walk  of  a  thoroughbred.  His  mind  was 
stored  with  facts.  To  look  at  his  eager  face  with 
its  large,  vehement  eyes  and  sensitive  mouth  —  all 
so  desperately  alive  —  was  to  receive  the  impres- 
sion that  here  was  a  man  who,  even  in  his  sleep, 
could  never  be  entirely  at  rest.  The  sun,  one  felt, 
was  in  his  blood.  He  was  as  unstable  and  fluid 
as  quicksilver. 

Sylvester  took  to  him  at  once,  and  in  their  day- 
long walks  over  the  lonely,  uninhabited  mountains 
he  learned  many  curious  things  from  the  man  who, 
engaged  as  a  servant,  at  once  became  a  friend. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  walks  that,  peering 
over  a  precipitous  cliff,  they  saw  a  golden  eagle 
standing  on  a  ledge  below  them.  They  lay  watch- 
ing it  for  a  long  time,  the  almost  vertical  sun  smit- 
ing their  prone  bodies. 

"  Its  nest  is  sure  to  be  somewhere  near,  Draco. 
I  would  give  a  hundred  drachmae  to  get  a  photo- 
graph of  the  female  sitting  on  her  eggs." 
324 


NERVES 

"  That  is  the  female,"  said  Draco,  who  was  ex- 
amining the  bird  through  Sylvester's  field-glasses. 

Presently,  the  great  bird  rose,  flapped  its  heavy, 
bright  wings,  and  flew  upwards  until  it  had  reached 
a  ledge  thirty  feet  below  the  two  watchers. 
There,  just  visible,  was  its  nest. 

"Ah!"  breathed  Sylvester,  drawing  himself 
away,  and  sitting  down  well  out  of  sight  of  the 
eagle.  "  Can  it  be  done,  Draco?  Can  we  get 
down  to  her?  " 

Draco  was  still  looking  down  at  the  bird,  his 
face  alive  with  excitement.  He  stayed  there  a 
long  time.  When,  at  length,  he  joined  Sylvester, 
his  face  and  bared  chest  and  arms  were  covered 
with  sweat.  He  pressed  his  hands  to  his  fore- 
head. 

"  Yes,  it  can  be  done.  But  we  shall  want  ropes. 
I  could  climb  down  with  the  camera,  fix  it  up  a 
yard  or  two  from  the  nest,  return  here  and  pull 
up  the  rope.  After  that,  it's  simply  a  matter  of 
waiting  for  her  to  settle  again.  The  only  thing 
is  —  have  you  got  enough  tubing?  I  reckon 
you'll  want  about  thirty-five  feet." 

"Oh  yes:  I've  plenty  of  tubing.  It's  a  great 
find  this,  Draco.  If  only  we  can  pull  it  off,  see? 
Now,  what  do  you  say?  —  shall  we  leave  it  till 
to-morrow,  or  go  back  home  now,  get  our  ropes 
and  tubing,  and  come  back  this  evening  an  hour 
or  so  before  sunset?  " 

"  Just  as  you  like.  But  this  evening  would  be 
a  splendid  time;  for  we  shall  then  have  the  sun 
shining  straight  on  the  nest." 

As  he  spoke,  he  again  pressed  his  hands  against 

325 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

his  forehead.     He  licked  his  lips  with  the  tip  of 
his  tongue. 

"  You  look  a  bit  overwrought,  Draco.  Are 
you  feeling  all  right?  " 

"  Well,  it's  my  eyes.  The  sun  has  got  into 
them.  My  head  aches  a  bit  —  but  it's  nothing." 

They  made  their  way  down  the  hot,  broken 
rocks  until  they  saw  Doiran,  white  and  gleaming, 
at  their  feet.  Beyond  was  the  wonderful  blue 
lake,  and  beyond  the  lake  rose  the  Belashitza 
Mountains  cutting  the  sky  with  their  fanged  crests. 

"  How  wonderful  it  is !  "  exclaimed  Sylvester. 

Draco  gazed  on  the  scene  with  his  swollen  pu- 
pils. 

"  Yes,"  he  agreed.  "  I  never,  never  get  tired 
of  it.  I  was  born  down  there." 

It  was  now  midday  and  the  sun  was  at  its  hot- 
test. The  atmosphere  danced  before  them  liq- 
uidly.  No  birds  sang,  for  it  was  Pan's  hour. 
The  sun  had  smitten  that  world  to  silence. 

Five  hours  later  they  were  again  climbing  the 
mountains.  Draco's  head  was  one  intolerable 
ache,  but  he  made  no  complaint.  He  had  been 
like  this  before;  it  would  soon  pass. 

But  when  they  had  nearly  reached  their  destin- 
ation, he  was  compelled  to  stop  and  lie  down  in 
the  shade  of  a  rock. 

"You  are  feverish,  Draco,  see?"  said  Sylves- 
ter. "  You  really  ought  not  to  have  come  out 
a  second  time.  You've  got  a  touch  of  the  sun. 
Look  here :  we'll  go  back  and  come  again  to-mor- 
row." 

"  No,"  said  Draco,  "  no." 
326 


NERVES 

And  he  tried  to  rise ;  but,  his  legs  crumpling  up 
beneath  the  weight  of  his  body,  he  fell  down  and 
lay  full-length  on  the"  bare  rock. 

Sylvester  sat  down  by  his  side,  took  off  his  coat, 
folded  it  into  a  pillow,  and  placed  it  beneath 
Draco's  head. 

For  half  an  hour  they  remained  in  silence; 
then  : 

"  I  feel  better  now,"  said  Draco. 

"  Good.  But  you  mustn't  go  any  farther.  Do 
you  feel  fit  to  walk  back?  " 

'  You  go  alone  —  to  the  nest,  I  mean.  Can 
you  climb  down  the  rope  and  up  again?  " 

"  Oh  yes:  I've  done  that  sort  of  thing  many 
a  time." 

'  Well,  you  go  alone.  I'll  wait  here  until  you 
return.  As  soon  as  it  gets  cool  I  shall  feel  much 
better.  You  are  bound  to  come  this  way  on  your 
way  back." 

'  Very  well,  I'll  do  that.  Sure  you're  well 
enough  to  be  left  alone?  " 

Draco,  his  eyes  large  and  bloodshot,  glanced 
at  his  companion  and  laughed. 

"  Of  course.  This  is  not  the  first  time  I've 
been  left  alone  in  the  mountains." 

Sylvester  disappeared  round  the  corner,  and 
Draco,  closing  his  eyes,  soon  fell  asleep.  He 
breathed  heavily,  and  for  two  hours  he  did  not 
move.  The  air  grew  cooler,  and  the  sun  was 
lurching  fantastically  behind  the  mountain-tops 
when  he  awoke.  The  pain  had  gone,  but  he 
awoke  with  an  acute  feeling  of  apprehension. 
For  a  moment  or  two,  he  could  not  remember 

327 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

where  he  was  or  how  he  came  to  be  there.     Then, 
remembering  Sylvester, 

"  It's  time  he  was  back,"  he  said  to  himself. 
He  looked  at  the  sun:  in  an  hour  it  would  be 
dark. 

Scrambling  to  his  feet,  he  hastened  up  the  moun- 
tain, his  heart  beating  rapidly  with  a  fear  that 
he  had  never  felt  for  himself.  He  blamed  him- 
self for  allowing  Sylvester  to  go  alone,  for,  after 
all,  it  was  a  job  for  two  men.  Increasing  his  pace 
every  minute,  he  reached  the  place,  breathless  and 
alarmed. 

The  rope  was  there.  One  end  of  it  was  se- 
curely fastened  round  a  boulder.  Lying  down  at 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  Draco  peered  over  and  saw 
the  other  end  of  the  rope  resting  on  the  ledge;  by 
its  side  was  the  camera.  But  there  was  no  sign 
of  Sylvester. 

Seized  by  panic,  Draco  shouted  into  the  chasm 
below. 

"  Dr.  Sylvester !  Dr.  Sylvester !  " 
But  the  great  spaces  swallowed  up  the  sound 
of  his  voice.  A  vulture  swam  past  him  and  dis- 
appeared. Again  he  called  and,  straining,  lis- 
tened. No  answer.  No  sound.  Almost  mad 
with  a  fear  that  crawled  into  his  very  vitals,  he 
shouted  again  and  again  without  pause. 

Dark  blue  shadows  crept  out  of  the  rocks;  the 
purple  sky  darkened.  He  could  no  longer  see 
the  ledge  below  him. 

It  was  then  that  his  nerves  conquered  him  and 
he  became  their  victim. 

He  rose  and,  running,  retraced  his  steps. 
328 


NERVES 

Anxiety  made  havoc  of  his  reason.  If  only  he 
knew  the  worst!  Almost  blindly  he  ran,  but  in- 
stinct and  knowledge  guided  him. 

Half-way  down  the  mountains  he  pulled  himself 
up  suddenly.  He  had  thought  himself  incapable 
of  further  suffering,  but  now  he  felt  a  pain  like 
a  fretted  blade  sawing  at  his  brain.  Why,  they 
would  say  that  he  had  murdered  Sylvester !  Who 
would  believe  his  story?  Would  even  his  mother 
believe  it?  It  was  as  clear  as  the  sun.  He  had 
taken  Sylvester  up  into  the  mountains,  had  robbed 
him,  and  then  thrown  him  over  the  cliff!  His 
body  would  never  be  found  in  those  inaccessible 
heights ! 

He  stood,  chilled  and  trembling.  Oh,  God ! 
if  he  only  knew! 

Then  reason  left  him.  He  scrambled  hither 
and  thither  on  the  rocks  on  hands  and  knees,  call- 
ing "Sylvester!  Sylvester!"  as  he  went.  His 
hands  and  knees  were  bleeding,  and  something  like 
blood  seemed  to  be  washing  about  within  his 
brain.  Occasionally,  he  stopped  with  exhaustion, 
but  on  each  occasion  before  he  had  got  back  his 
breath  he  started  again,  saying  aloud:  "  I  must 
waste  no  time.  Where  is  he?  Where  is  he?  " 

The  inhumanly  human  cry  of  jackals  desolated 
the  night.  He  paused  and  imitated  them.  Then, 
having  scrambled  faster  and  faster  in  the  dark,  he 
lay  full-length,  his  airless  lungs  seeming  to  be 
about  to  burst  open  his  great,  hairy  chest. 

The  pale-green  dawn  came  up  the  sky  and 
washed  the  rocks  with  its  colour.  Looking 
around  him  he  saw  close  at  hand  the  rope  by 

329 


TALES    OF    A    CRUEL    COUNTRY 

which  Sylvester  had  climbed  down  the  face  of  the 
cliff.  The  place  seemed  friendly:  here  he  could 
find  release. 

He  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  looked 
down.  A  faint  mist  clouded  the  hollow  below 
where  his  companion  was  lying.  For  a  moment 
he  swayed,  and  then,  with  a  start,  drew  back.  He 
tried  to  totter  over  the  brink,  but  could  not. 
Something  held  him  back  —  fear  I 

With  an  effort  he  fixed  his  mind  on  death  and 
on  the  desire  for  death.  And  again  he  tried  to 
let  his  body  go.  But  it  hung  stupidly  back:  he 
had  a  coward's  body. 

He  would  try  another  way.  Having  walked 
fifty  paces  away  from  the  cliff's  edge,  he  turned 
about  and  began  to  run,  his  crimson  hands  and 
knees  dropping  blood  as  he  went.  As  he  neared 
the  edge,  his  body  instinctively  tried  to  stop.  But 
it  was  too  late,  the  momentum  he  had  gathered 
was  too  great.  Mind  had  conquered  matter,  and 
he  ran  and  vanished  ino  space. 

At  that  moment,  Dr.  Sylvester,  tired  and  weary- 
eyed,  entered  the  cottage  of  Draco's  mother.  He 
had  been  walking  all  night. 


THE    END 


330 


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